Rain

There's nothing like the sound of a thousand raindrops trotting on a tin roof. Today during Pranayama, the breathing portion of our yoga class, the evolution of a storm stole my focus. I neglected my lungs and abdomen and let the thunder bowl through me, its knees and elbows banging into walls, clanging about above my head, taking over the sky.

The raindrops came soon after, loud, like schoolboys spilling marbles on a sheet of glass. After a heavy onslaught, the droplets slowed. Rivulets ran down leaves looking for a nice place to land. Spheres of water tumbled down temple ramparts, happy to roll, and then leap, roll, then leap, picking up speed, flipping over once, twice, splaying liquid arms then curving into a droplet again and galloping over the next edge. It smelled as if God had ripped open a thick, yellow-veined, green leaf and the moist, fresh earthy smell took over everything.

The asphalt darkened into deep slate, and the cow paddies and afternoon detritus dog-paddled to a nearby drainage canal. These narrow, cement canals run parallel to the road on both sides, accepting the debris and dirt that's been discarded in the street.

When it pours, water speeds through the drainage-ways, and little Indian boys and girls kneel to watch, rapt with attention, as trash rushes by underneath them. For an adult, it's difficult not to be disgusted by the junk that bumbles about, bobbing from one side to the other. But, the children must imagine the floating bottles and bits of brown paper and plastic wrappers as bobbing sailboats and flashy fish. A little girl twings a piece of silver foil through a steel grate into the water passing below and smiles as it drops and floats downstream. She sighs with delight at her creation.

I inhale the rain smell, and wiggle into my mat, trying to once more focus on my breath and watch my inner nature, all the while wishing the rain would stage another hoe-down above my head.