Cats don’t like rain.
Every cat-like person works as a subtle reminder of the fact that there are people who breathe and don’t like rain. A poor cat drizzles down, tries not to soak it’s body more and climbs up trees or hides in shade. I imagine it’s heart-pounding like anything, hair disgusted with drops of water, it’s paws eager to scrape the earth down. I can imagine how impatient it goes when things don’t go correct in the rain.
I too get maddened as it drizzles. The light drizzle is just unable to soak me up. I wish the rain would get me wet, thickly wet that every cell of my body gets to welcome this beauty of rain. I imagine myself heavily soaked, drops of water down the fibres of my hair, some shining on my short nails. I don’t mind my shoes getting shabby. I don’t care if I’ll catch a cold and have to lie on the bed next day, but wish if it rains heavily, making my eardrums go insane, my pair of spectacles as hazy as memories of yours in my head, my lips rightly thirsty of liquid of love, my fingers quite frosted. I don’t mind if my brain seeps down the head this time, eyeballs roll down the cheeks, mouth incapable of pronouncing any decipherable word. But I wish it just rains down insanely.
For no good reason, I get nostalgic during rain. I see hand-cups eager to collect water, often sprinkling over the other body smiling with you, talking either of poetry or any form of art. It is rain, I assume, the first hope of life must have come from. There’s a drop shining on the glabrous surface of the leaf and I am even more bewitched. Clock completes it’s round but I’m left observing this single drop of water on a leaf. Silently. As if mourning. Mourning the death of my own soul that dies every passing-second. Only do I know how many flesh have I buried down in my heart. In the foldings of my dressings. In the bend of my hairs. In the sulci of my brain and beats of my heart. And it is the rain, I exhume them. I free them from everything they were bound to, even from my own memory and finally feel myself a new person. I drink cups of ash-water; ashes of my own hopes and desires, all the promises that broke, that I made with you or you made with me. Ashes of my dreams I saw close to you. My vision gets more ‘hazier’ this time. These ashes for the last time reminded me of everything past. Everything that cannot be corrected now. Everything that cannot be expected tomorrow. Then there’s this canvas of images lying on the ceiling of my heart. I tear them down, as mad as I can go. I love this sound, ja…rarrr!! I assume this is just a minute manifestation of my wish to crush down my brain and listen to the music of my body.
It is during the rain I think can I well drain out every ‘greys’ from my body. Drenched as I am, I think I can well infuse a beautiful soul that landed with showers on Earth, into my body. I feel elated.
It does get me melancholic to see lone pair of hand-cups collecting rainwater with no other body to sprinkle over by side. It certainly gives no pleasure to sing alone or think of poetry one-sided way. But I recover in the end. This incompleteness of life is more beautiful than the complete one. You have your choice to imagine things, you find pleasure your own way, without any restrictions and obligations. And I love myself more as the last drop of water kisses my cheeks. Perhaps, I imagine your presence in every raindrop. May be gazing your eyes. May be your ears never tired of my stories and words. Your breaths that love my breathing even more dearly. Maybe your sensation that endears my presence. In fact the wholesome YOU.
And then, I see cat-like people trying to find a shade or an umbrella or entering a nearby cafe to sip a cup of coffee. But see, I remain bewitched. Ashwater of my anxieties and memories give me company. I fold umbrella and wander through the drenched streets because cats don’t like rain and I don’t like cats.