I look out of the window, wondering how I’ll get back to the new campus. I don’t understand how Sonipat can ruin something as beautiful as rain for me. I see flashes of the alternating intensity of rains back home, be it a drizzle or even the most torrential storms. They never seemed to be such an inconvenience. All I can think about is how beautiful the city looked as it poured outside, the smell of wet soil and the warm cup of chai in my hands as I read next to the window. Why can’t the rain here be the same? I sigh, knowing that I’ll be stuck in the library for a few hours before it finally clears out.
As I sit there, annoyed by the rain, I think about how everything back home seemed nicer when I first got to Ashoka. The relationships I had with people seemed so much easier to handle. Just like the rains, no matter how intense things got between me and others, it never seemed like a hassle. They seemed like the first drops of rain — soft, and a relief from the heat. As I look back at it, it seemed so mellow. Like the first drops of rain bring plants to life, they seemed to bring out the best in me.
This was a complete contrast to when I first got to Ashoka. I’d compare my relationships to a downpour — a suddenness that is exciting yet overwhelming. It felt like I had to keep actively reaching out to be heard or even seen. The rains here at Sonipat seemed to mimic my emotions at the time — flooding and rains at such intensity that even your sight becomes a blur. They may have started as refreshing, but leave you drenched and exhausted, an absolute wreck, as some might say. But it isn’t fair to hold these relationships to such high standards and view them in such a negative light.
I then thought back to summer vacations back home; every year, there would be reports of disturbance over the Bay of Bengal. This meant only one thing — a cyclone was coming. It seems rather satirical that someone from a cyclone-prone state seems to prefer the rains back home over the rains at Sonipat. One leaves devastating damage for days, and possibly even weeks, while the other is just an inconvenience for a few hours. It is true, though, that nostalgia makes us look upon things with more fondness. Some of those relationships are better off strained, but the distance makes you wonder about all the what-ifs.
There’s a rather peculiar phenomenon that occurs after a cyclone — beautiful skies—a complete contrast to the strong gusts of wind that uproot almost all in its path. But once the skies clear and the rain recedes, there are beautiful sunsets to look forward to with a light breeze. The same soft smell of wet earth clouds your judgment as to how something so violent leaves behind such a beautiful aftermath. I, too, have forgotten the quarrels and arguments that once seemed so crushing to go through. The polishing of memories to make them more luminous than they actually were is something I’ve done unconsciously time and time again. It’s not that hard to rewrite a cyclonic storm as a gentle shower simply because you want to believe that things were once beautiful and calm.
And as I watched the rain clear and dry up, the last of my thoughts started ringing. Rain and relationships are both transient. They come and go with a rhythm beyond our control. Some showers leave behind a more fertile landscape, while others leave only mud and debris. You must accept all aspects of it, for it is beyond your control. All you can do is live through them passively, taking in the best of what is available to you. Like one cannot command when the rain falls or when it stops, only how we choose to go about it. Relationships, too, resist control. To remember them truthfully is to stand in the damp aftermath, neither idealising nor erasing, but acknowledging that every drop—gentle or fierce—shaped the terrain of who we have become.