When raindrops tickle you
Saturday, 1 May 2010
Maswood Alam Khan
The evening of Monday last must have been a sweet nightfall for many of us living in Dhaka city, who for the last few weeks were tired and bored of expecting rain in vain, pretty weary of looking at the clouds that would drift away like a mirage, like an illusion of an oasis, cheating on the thirsty. Heavy drops of rain, at long last, tickled our skins, swaying and dancing in the cooled gusty wind, bringing smiles on our faces as we enjoyed the sight, sound and feel of the season's real first drops of rain from our breezy balconies or from behind windowpanes of our cars.
Monday evening stoked up our emotions, welled up our eyes with tears of ecstasy---evoking memories of our sweet old days. Those of us who had left their youths far behind felt like spreading wings of their wishes to fly back to those days when the smell of wet soil, the damp grass, and the slosh of puddles under our feet made many of us want to dance with wanton joy---holding our sweethearts' hands and walking in the rains while the cloud played cupid.
"Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky". Who did compose this sentence? Who else, other than Rabindranath Tagore, could weave such a garland of words? Yes, Rabindranath was perhaps one of very few in the literary world who could see and hear the beauty and music of clouds and rains. Ashar and Sraban, the first two Bengali months of rain, deeply etched and touched on Tagore's heart and soul.
Not a single Bangla speaking person can be found in the whole world who didn't get immensely moved when s/he first heard the resounding Rabindranath-composed poem: "Neel Nabaghana Ashaar Gogoney Teel Thai Aar Nahirey, Ogo Aaj Tora Jashney Ghorer Bahirey" (Not a tiny space is there in the azure sky, which is shrouded by the densest monsoon clouds; Listen, all of you! don't venture outside of your homes today) or the vibrant songs: "Aji jhoro jhoro mukhoro badolo diney" (Today---the day full of rains ceaselessly falling in rhymes with storms breaking) and "Emono Diney Tarey Bola Jai" (Yes, this is the day perfect when the word could be whispered to her ears).
The kid who for the first time in her life watched in awed surprise the pleasant rainfalls on Monday night must have painted on her mental canvas in her own choice of colors the spectacular beauty of nature awash with rains, a marvelous scene of rainfalls, which would stay with her as long as her heart will be throbbing in her temporal life.
A toddler might have asked his mother, "Where do all these rains come from, Ammu?" A smart mother might have told him "God is crying". And if the toddler then babbled 'Why is God crying?' the cute answer his mother could give is "Probably because of something you did".
The boy in whose mind a storm of passion was brewing up for years to fall in love with the girl he first saw on a corridor of their college but could never pluck up the courage to express his feelings perhaps found all his pent-up emotions spilling over Monday evening when the cool breeze smashed the wall that had held him back; the boy, now a man, texted the three precious words 'I love you' to the mobile phone of the girl, who is now a lady, and the lady perhaps replied: "I do too". Monday night, I am sure, was a night when mobile phone operators made a few tons of money on account of SMS as millions found the night the loveliest to convey their feelings to their beloveds.
Monday night was the night when you and I had to play the song Donovan Leitch, the singer-songwriter, had sung to hit the pop charts in 1965 with his single "Catch the Wind": "When rain has hung the leaves with tears, I want you near, to kill my fears, to help me to leave all my blues behind. Standing in your heart is where I want to be and long to be. Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind. Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind".
To be very honest and frank, I couldn't afford to sleep Monday night. I spent hours sitting on my small balcony while breathing in the cool air of the stormy night and splurging my time on the luxury of my fantasy. I chose to enjoy my time and space all alone to travel in my world of fancy and dream. I felt too wiped out, a feeling of being out of kilter.
I put on my DVD player a disc full of the songs I always love to listen to when I am in need of rejuvenation. It felt like a multi-sensory haven which had generated a sense of grounding, a lovely feeling of nostalgia wafting all around me. It's exactly where I wanted to be, reflectively soaking it all up. Every single song that had played on Monday night in my solitary apartment conjured up a living panorama of beautiful faces, heart-held memories and all those stuffs that dreams are made of; within the tunes I could hear, view and feel the intimate conversations, the smiles and tears, the reunions and shared walks, the living spirits of the people who continue to touch me, the ones in particular who are far away in physical distance, but never ever far from my grateful heart---all close enough to wrap your hands around them.
E-mail : maswood@hotmail.com
The evening of Monday last must have been a sweet nightfall for many of us living in Dhaka city, who for the last few weeks were tired and bored of expecting rain in vain, pretty weary of looking at the clouds that would drift away like a mirage, like an illusion of an oasis, cheating on the thirsty. Heavy drops of rain, at long last, tickled our skins, swaying and dancing in the cooled gusty wind, bringing smiles on our faces as we enjoyed the sight, sound and feel of the season's real first drops of rain from our breezy balconies or from behind windowpanes of our cars.
Monday evening stoked up our emotions, welled up our eyes with tears of ecstasy---evoking memories of our sweet old days. Those of us who had left their youths far behind felt like spreading wings of their wishes to fly back to those days when the smell of wet soil, the damp grass, and the slosh of puddles under our feet made many of us want to dance with wanton joy---holding our sweethearts' hands and walking in the rains while the cloud played cupid.
"Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky". Who did compose this sentence? Who else, other than Rabindranath Tagore, could weave such a garland of words? Yes, Rabindranath was perhaps one of very few in the literary world who could see and hear the beauty and music of clouds and rains. Ashar and Sraban, the first two Bengali months of rain, deeply etched and touched on Tagore's heart and soul.
Not a single Bangla speaking person can be found in the whole world who didn't get immensely moved when s/he first heard the resounding Rabindranath-composed poem: "Neel Nabaghana Ashaar Gogoney Teel Thai Aar Nahirey, Ogo Aaj Tora Jashney Ghorer Bahirey" (Not a tiny space is there in the azure sky, which is shrouded by the densest monsoon clouds; Listen, all of you! don't venture outside of your homes today) or the vibrant songs: "Aji jhoro jhoro mukhoro badolo diney" (Today---the day full of rains ceaselessly falling in rhymes with storms breaking) and "Emono Diney Tarey Bola Jai" (Yes, this is the day perfect when the word could be whispered to her ears).
The kid who for the first time in her life watched in awed surprise the pleasant rainfalls on Monday night must have painted on her mental canvas in her own choice of colors the spectacular beauty of nature awash with rains, a marvelous scene of rainfalls, which would stay with her as long as her heart will be throbbing in her temporal life.
A toddler might have asked his mother, "Where do all these rains come from, Ammu?" A smart mother might have told him "God is crying". And if the toddler then babbled 'Why is God crying?' the cute answer his mother could give is "Probably because of something you did".
The boy in whose mind a storm of passion was brewing up for years to fall in love with the girl he first saw on a corridor of their college but could never pluck up the courage to express his feelings perhaps found all his pent-up emotions spilling over Monday evening when the cool breeze smashed the wall that had held him back; the boy, now a man, texted the three precious words 'I love you' to the mobile phone of the girl, who is now a lady, and the lady perhaps replied: "I do too". Monday night, I am sure, was a night when mobile phone operators made a few tons of money on account of SMS as millions found the night the loveliest to convey their feelings to their beloveds.
Monday night was the night when you and I had to play the song Donovan Leitch, the singer-songwriter, had sung to hit the pop charts in 1965 with his single "Catch the Wind": "When rain has hung the leaves with tears, I want you near, to kill my fears, to help me to leave all my blues behind. Standing in your heart is where I want to be and long to be. Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind. Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind".
To be very honest and frank, I couldn't afford to sleep Monday night. I spent hours sitting on my small balcony while breathing in the cool air of the stormy night and splurging my time on the luxury of my fantasy. I chose to enjoy my time and space all alone to travel in my world of fancy and dream. I felt too wiped out, a feeling of being out of kilter.
I put on my DVD player a disc full of the songs I always love to listen to when I am in need of rejuvenation. It felt like a multi-sensory haven which had generated a sense of grounding, a lovely feeling of nostalgia wafting all around me. It's exactly where I wanted to be, reflectively soaking it all up. Every single song that had played on Monday night in my solitary apartment conjured up a living panorama of beautiful faces, heart-held memories and all those stuffs that dreams are made of; within the tunes I could hear, view and feel the intimate conversations, the smiles and tears, the reunions and shared walks, the living spirits of the people who continue to touch me, the ones in particular who are far away in physical distance, but never ever far from my grateful heart---all close enough to wrap your hands around them.
E-mail : maswood@hotmail.com