When he was 8, he would want to get wet in the rains, to feel tiny rain drops hitting his face, sliding down his smile onto his shoulders, and falling on the ground, to jump in puddles, to embrace the magical phenomenon that he hadn’t come to know about as yet.
The rains. The rains would come in Septembers. September was the time when his school exams were scheduled. So, whenever, it was raining, he would be spending his time studying in his room, diligently obeying his mothers orders.
Every year
Starting from just the next day after the exams were over, he would wake up early and rush downstairs to fetch the morning newspaper. He would bring it into his room and of all the pages, open the weather one. He would scrutinize the whole page looking for any sign of upcoming rains. There would be, at times, little chances, hopes which would never materialise.
This whole exercise soon became a habit, that he continued for long, till finally he grew tired of it. It was when he was 13 that logic struck him, that he realised that the world functions on pattern and monotony, and that the rains wouldn’t come after September if they never did before. The only thing he could do, was to hope.
I once read
Hope is but a casual lie said to keep innocent eyes from tearing up, and maybe it is true. His innocent eyes grew tired of waiting and with time, so did his fascination with rains. He started growing up.
He is 24. He doesn’t have any exams to give, and he is free to follow his wishes.
When the rain would come, he would take out his umbrella, open it over his head and then, instinctively, look down, at the ground, at the scene of rain drops hitting the floor, listening to the tip tap, hoping perhaps for fascination to come back.

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