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Rain Therapy, By Rani Iyer, ,

Camping alone in the field house today, I gasped at the intensity and aggression of the monsoon. The year is probably a rare year when life is in abundance. I see green everywhere. Even the smallest patch of green is a carnival of diversity. Life abounds. Water fills, flows and over flows. Winds screech. Clouds gather. Rain, the ambrosia that supports life, squeezes into every bit of space. A bit of peeled seed coat is enough to sustain life. Nothing is too old to be conquered, for fungus snacks on all.
Punctuating the breathless and noisy bouts of rain are glorious silences that amplify the pulsating cicadas, the cry of the serpent eagle, the stammer of the giant squirrels and echo the erratic passage of a passing thunder.

The rustle of the leaves in the wind is haunting, addictive forming a unique music. From the leaf tips of the tall emergent tree the collected rainwater drips rhythmically on to the leathery leaves of the canopy. From here, they dive on to the membranous leaves in the understorey and slide silently to be assimilated on the forest floor. The gentle tenor of the drip varies perpetually as in an exciting concert of drums.
The aroma of earth licked by water is my favourite perfume. I am always anxious to smell the clean water, herbs and the mist soon after rains stop. Every blossom, bud, leaf or fruit acquires a subtle scent as if laundered by a secret formula. The pregnant waterfall, commanding respect with it's width, foam and brown water, splashes mysterious aroma all around. Do animals love to taste this stirred water? I often ponder. With so much happening around me, why should I waste time cooking and consuming? My food is certain to taste like limp litter on the flooded forest floor. I will grab my umbrella, wear my oldest pair of field clothes and go tramping down the little known paths chatting with sun birds, caressing the silken sprouts, tasting tips of tender grass, licking up sour fruits and gathering fragrances that shall never be bottled. The rain rejuvenates life and hope in this jungle. In me, it reincarnates a childhood of wondrous discoveries that I can re-live every monsoon.





Last updated on :5/15/2021

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Dimdima is the Sanskrit word for ‘drumbeat’. In olden days, victory in battle was heralded by the beat of drums or any important news to be conveyed to the people used to be accompanied with drumbeats.

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