Rains and Ramblings

I suppose if us women got a shilling for every time we violently proclaimed to our best friends over a midnight intervention that we will stop chasing the wildest red flags and then forgot everything the very next day and went back to them, we would have enough money to last us a lifetime.

Or at the very least, I certainly would.

The last one week has been comparatively normal. Well, as normal as it could get, I suppose. The summer storms have set in, heralding an agonizing series of rainy days and grey, cloudy mornings. As much as I adore the monsoons, it has also brought a certain gloom along with it. Or it's probably just my busybody mind spiraling and I would much rather blame it on the weather. Well, whatever the reason might be, I haven't exactly been feeling myself, and when even a concerning frequency of steaming tea in earthen bhaands from the LHC cafeteria didn't quite resolve the strange hollowness I kept feeling in my chest, I figured I might as well bask in the melancholia thoroughly. Hence, I clutched my Kindle close to my heart as the week drudged on and stayed up till 3am reading romance novels and wallowing in even greater self-pity.

This brooding and pensive mood might have boded well for Austen's heroines, but I had no such luck. It just turned me moody and snappy, and made me warier of social interactions than my friends are usually accustomed to. Their conjectures as to what bothered me were all contributing factors, I realized, but none of them were the actual reason, which even I couldn't possibly fathom. My inability to form a comprehensive and sensible reply to the question of "What's wrong?" ticked me off even more, and soon I was spiraling in a whirlpool of shame at having ignored all my friends for no good reason, and an even greater urge to isolate myself from everybody despite all of them being concerned for my well-being. I have always thought of myself as rather logical, but I suppose the lazy raindrops dripping down my windowpanes have been tugging at strings greater than one. 

None of this was made any easier by the fact that I didn't let an ounce of this internal turmoil visible to him. I have always prided myself in being real, and in having no shame in putting my broken and rough edges out on display with as much grace as one would put forward their accomplishments. Yet I was fake. I smiled bright every time he was around, I talked loud and laughed louder; I pretended I wasn't falling apart. I loathed myself through the process; for not being able to put up the same effort for my friends, and an even greater degree of repent for caring enough about his opinion to not let the facade slip. Clearly, the numerous TED talks I had been sat down for had born no fruition.

This isn't to say the monotonous greys of the sky and the torrents of rain that washed the parched campus roads didn't come with a share of joy. The first sweet taste of thunderstorm rose when we left the auditorium after a drama competition exactly one week back. The wild winds rustled through the leaves, the trees swayed violently in rhythm to the gusts, and the sky tore itself apart in blinding lightning as a bunch of us ecstatic first years cycled furiously to the canteen to evade the inevitable downpour. Bikes screeched to a halt in front of the mess, and in a symphony of laughter we rushed into shade, right as the first drops of rain hit the pavements. An eventful dinner followed, accompanied by judgmental looks as twenty of us occupied a series of chairs and caused an uproar of conversation and guffawing. Amidst playful glances and grudgingly shared ice cream cups and forged romances, the rains steadily grew stronger outside, and by the time we had washed off our hands, half of the college stood at the threshold of the mess, staring outside despondently as the downpour strengthened. We decided it wouldn't be wise to return, and an unspoken agreement that the night was brimming with too much excitement to end it this soon was unequivocally accepted. We skipped to the floor above the canteen and stood at the balcony; shielded from the sprinkles, but not guarded from the fresh monsoon breeze of the night. I went beyond the rails and stood in the drizzle for a few moments, my heart sinking with a feeling of Deja-vu. Summer storms, or Kaalbaishakhi, as we Bengalis call them, holds memories for me that are not easily forgotten. The petrichor, the smell of Jui flowers penetrating the air, candle-lit rooms when the electricity went out, the static of the radio before it tuned to the right channel, onion rings and potato wedges dashed with a sprinkle of salt for snacks, sounds of my father laughing in the living room, whispered conversation with a lover within loud rains and khichdi-omelets for dinner. The days I stood missing, standing there on the balcony, were also the days I had sat with a notebook on the windowsill of my room, desperately wishing to be exactly where I am right now. The irony wasn't lost on me. I was clearly not an exception to the infallible human urge of always wanting what they don't have. My musings didn't get much time or attention of anybody, much to my relief. When I finally zoned back in and attuned to the surroundings, Retro Bollywood songs had been switched on, conversations had grown languid and comfortable. I was seized with this inexplicable urge to lean against somebody's chest and let the night consume my senses. His seemingly playful brushes against my skin sent shivers down my spine. I evaded eyes. Monsoons were deceitful. They weren't to be trusted. It chilled nights enough to mistake the warmth of the pair of hands gripping my wrists in play as something more. Something it wasn't. I rushed exhales and kept myself grounded. I wasn't to be loved. I couldn't lean on people; everybody had shifted with a grunt every time I had, leaving me with flaming cheeks and sheer embarrassment at the fact that I had been weak enough to do it in the first place.

Spring break begins this Saturday, and despite my proclaimed aversion to returning home, I found myself on my haunches this whole week, eager to return to the comfort of my room. A week of home-cooked food, forty-minute showers and infallible privacy has never felt more enticing. I have saved a million recipes I aim to cook by the time break ends, and unless I end up burning my kitchen down, I will see all of you next week!

Adios!

Signing off,

Shaona.