As the meek shower started, I stood there under the sky, letting it drench me – sooner, however, it was torrential drench breaking down in squalls. The wind, that typical monsoon wind mingled with Multan’s gypsy-lusted violent currents of air – it melted down to a melodious symphony, flapping softly at my shirt as I stood contemplating the intoxicating mud-scent. Away, far away, up in the zenith, the whites were giving way to greys, shaded fluffs in placid exaltations, rising in ridges and cliffs, conquering the welkin’s canvas. I felt homely – in there, in those pleasantly damp moments, amid the rustling winds, I could relate. Those slanting angels the rain-drops made, the snakes twirling on windows and the enchanting music of them tapping all over – it was something out of this world, as it always have been.
In a few moments, perhaps hours, for I wouldn’t know, such was my exalted stupor, the whites were re-emerging from ‘neath a shade dense. The rain grew thin once again to a meek shower and then stopped. The wind rustled, celebrating the occasion – and an occasion it was, a rare one, of a solitary meditation of the spirit.
I opened my eyes, cleared the drops now trickling down my face and smiled – I was content with my fair share.