The rain here is a different rain.

As I see it every morning.. out my window.. first thing I wake up to..running down the length of my window pane …rivulets on the paved roads..between the nooks and crannies in the cobblestoned streets..crystal droplets on impossibly green blades of grass…slipping down surfaces and washing away non-existent dust and dirt… cold..incessant..tiny droplets.. pummeling you..┬áseeking to enter any tiny gap in any rain-resistant gear possible…people shield against it.. deny it.. stay away from it.. abhor it.

The rain back home.. has character.

Warm water.. big droplets.. cascading down houses, walls, roofs, dirty gnarled trees, washing days of caked mud and dirt, sopping up the pollution like a humongous sponge in the air, soaking tired and weary office goers…providing much needed eye-candy for men as sari pallus and dupattas stick to female forms, bringing another reason for kids on the street to come out and jump puddles, giving more opportunities for boys to roll in the mud and grass – all in the name of football, moistening dry cracked earth – like the licking of dry lips, filling reservoirs, lakes and canals… awakening new life.

How is miss the aroma of Geosmin.