Rain as scripture, silence as prayer
I sit in the little veranda of my house, watching the monsoon showers linger—reluctant to leave, yet gentle in their retreat. I have not switched on the lights, unwilling to startle the rain; let it pour undisturbed. In the damp glow that drifts from the balconies of neighbouring apartments, the avenue trees regain their lost colour, once dulled by dust and smoke from the endless traffic below. A soft wind stretches out its hand, caressing the plants, and the garden acquires a magical quality in the play of light and shade. I am reminded that the world is not separate from me—it breathes as I breathe.
My veranda has become a threshold between two worlds: the inner space of human order and the outer space of nature’s ungoverned rhythm. By keeping the lights off, I allow the rain to remain unobserved by artificial glare. In this deliberate dimness, I surrender control. The rain is teaching me humility.
As I watch, I see that this renewal is the very essence of existence:
The Trees: Restored drop by drop, their burdens washed away.
The Soul: Cleansed by time and reflection of its accumulated weariness.
The rain continues, carrying a silent reminder that life itself is a cycle of arrival and departure, of abundance and retreat. I see each drop as both an ending and a beginning—falling from the sky, dissolving into the earth, only to rise again in unseen vapours. Sitting here, I am witnessing impermanence in its gentlest form.
At this hour, traffic is sparse. The road outside lies cold and shivering, glistening under the yellow streetlight—a rare sight in this city of congestion and chaos. The thunder and lightning of early monsoon days have passed; now the showers arrive quietly, without flourish, much like the phase of life I find myself in. What I hear is only the rhythm of raindrops on leaves—cleansing, caressing, and rejuvenating not just the foliage, but everything and everyone around. I will keep watching this spectacle for as long as it lasts.
Rain is more than weather; it is a symbol. It cleanses, heals, and nourishes. Each drop carries the wisdom of impermanence—falling, dissolving, and rising again. It forgives without judgment, washing away yesterday’s dust and preparing the ground for tomorrow. Its healing power doesn’t rely on dramatic thunder or lightning, but on quiet persistence. It teaches patience, for it cannot be hurried or restrained. And in its impartiality, it reminds us of generosity: rain falls on all alike, saint and sinner, temple and tavern.
To sit here and watch is a practice in patience. The downpour cannot be hurried, nor can it be stopped. It teaches me that the most profound transformations happen slowly, drop by drop, until the inner and outer worlds are entirely renewed.
In this absolute impartiality lies the deepest wisdom: true nourishment is given freely, without judgment.
So, I will sit here in the dark and let the rain continue. For as long as it lasts, it is not merely weather to me. It is philosophy in motion, a sermon without words, and a mirror in which I glimpse the eternal cycle of cleansing, healing, and nourishing.
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