And it rained that day

It rained that day, out of nowhere it rained that day, monsoon was long gone, and it rained that day.

So hard because the almighty got irate, so hard that he didn’t care if the clouds fell down; he had poured on with full throttle. As if he was angry on the little boy losing his bond with him, carrying a gun and killing the once which are still close to him; the little once who has just started recognizing the face of her mother; the unborn once who still talk to him about her mother telling her stories of the king and the queen.

It was hard lashings on the mother Earth. Though she is strong enough caring for so many sons and daughters, still it hurt being the target of his anger. It wasn’t her fault; she had no control over her own children.

Or was he crying; shouldn’t he care to wait for the air-borne to take a perch; it brought a few of them crashing down. It might have been a cry in anguish over the young mother groaning in pain, moments ago her tears were of happiness, but then they were for losing the one she had never seen before, and won’t even be seeing anymore. Nine months of bond had broken; was it he who couldn’t detach his feelings for the unborn and couldn’t let mother be the surrogate. Were those the tears of guilt or was he happy to see someone back? Didn’t it pain him when the mother cried? No, it cannot be just happiness that made him cry so hoarsely.

Or was the rain started somewhere else slowly and just the wind bought it on us when it was hard? Someone would have been the lucky one who had received the first drop of his tears, the first one who had felt the pain in the drop; the first one who consoled him; the first one who made him open up, to shed the pain and anger. Was that the little boy he got angry on or was she the mother he had been unfair too?

And then it stopped, the smell of the fresh mud was mesmerizing; water running though the surface. Kids playing on them, running over and over them, jumping and singing, like happiness was a child playing with them.

Are these the wounds after lashings, and we like the flies who are enticed by the smell of fresh blood and flesh? Are we parasites or really the children of mother earth?

Moments later the birds came out of their perch signaling to resume the flight; or, were they trying to wake the unconscious mother telling her that her lashings were over now, wake up and take care of the wounds.

And it rained that day, so hard that I sat riddled on my chair under the open sky, as if my roof had been ripped off to let me feel the pain in the first drop.