Pitter-patter! The first raindrops on the window pane. I slipped out of the bed to catch a glimpse of the much-awaited monsoon cooling the blistering capital. At last, the rains are here - the much-loved and most awaited season of the year for me, washing the dust off the trees and the streets.It's not only a Kalidasa who can respond to the romance of rain, as he did so magnificently in his Meghdoot. It can send lesser mortals like me into raptures. Specially the first shower of the monsoon. Whenever the first rains lash the the parched summer earth, the aroma of the drenched soil floods my mind with a thousand memories.Monsoon! I can still smell the fragrance of the rain soaked soil which I used to inhale and ``try to feel'' as I was gradually growing aware of the world around me. The pattering of raindrops on the window panes of the bungalow mixed well with the commotion created by the neighbourhood children who used to flock to our house (at the behest of my elder sister) to make aloo tikkis and``pardy-in-the-rain''.Later, the colour of the ``first rains'' changed with several shades added from the Mills & Boons volumes I used to consume as a teenager. I would sit huddled in the corner of the verandah of my home - reliving the experiences of the Barbara Cartland heroines - even as I felt the soothing shower brush past me.It was the first rains of that typical eastern downpour when, after I was engaged to be married, I received my first love-letter from my husband-to-be. I can still remember vividly how I kept the letter down and headed straight to the mirror. As I draped a sari on myself, I watched the transformation in the mirror. I tried to scrutinise the image peering back at me. I was happy at the fact of getting married but sad at having to leave my mom's place to enter the unknown environs of my in-laws' household.I went to sit at the window to gaze at the small streams of rain slithering like water snakes on the plantain leaves in the garden outside. The guava trees bathed inrain were swaying like the heart of a bride-to-be.I remember my elder son, when he first saw the rains, say, ``Mum, mum'' (water), trying desperately to hold on to the raindrops that trickled from the tin roof of the garage with his podgy little fingers. It was difficult for me to hold him back. I rushed in to bolt the doors before he could scurry out. Today, the doors fail to do the trick. He floats paper boats in muddy puddles, bunks school to splash around with his friends, all of whom seem to declare a rain day holiday on their own.Then when my younger son came along I remember how, while it was raining one day, the three-year-old craned his neck out of the staircase, irritated at being drenched, to shout at ``the guy who has opened the shower in the sky''. Couldn't ``the guy'' see that he was getting us all wet?He has a field day in the rains now. With an umbrella and his school raincoat he goes down to pelt mud balls at his friends and foes alike. Both the brothers gang up and scurry out in therain to play football, cricket or any other game which catches their fancy including the ``mud ball''. In their games I see the fleeting reflections of my own childhood which I still cherish and want to hang on.Today, I hurry to put everything in place and rush off to work to escape the complaining neighbours and the urge to join the kids in the rain. Of course, it's a different matter altogether that now I catch a cold all too easily the moment I get wet so I would mean rather remain at home and eat sizzling tikkis as the rain showers joy around.
