Moonlight Sonata

•8 - Rain•

Rain: the condensed moisture of the atmosphere falling visibly in separate drops.

•He•

Rain.

That was one weird phenomenon. She simply loved it. But I seemed to hate it from the very core of my heart.

The days that it rained around here were the gloomiest: with Her, just sitting mute, and playing with Her mind, and me, trying to play the piano over the clatter of the raindrops, failing, and then pacing the house in frustration.

Today was such a day.

It made me quite cranky, I must say, and I snapped unnecessarily and sometimes even threw things around. In times like these, She would leave me be and step outside on the grounds. She would wince and squeal, as the cold drops made Her shudder. But Her favourite thing about rain, was that it had no colour.

"Those are the best kind of things," She would say, "the ones without a hue. You can paint them as you like, and each possibility would be true. How marvelous it would be, if all things were like that. Wouldn't it be fun, to paint grass red and not be called mad?"

I resisted telling Her, that She indeed painted the grass red. These little pleasures of Her in rain, were the ones I couldn't see. And I watched Her today from afar, wishing She would come back in. She did, eventually, and I then sat down with a sigh. "Rain confines me," I said. "When the annoying pitter-patter goes on, my mind just doesn't stay right."

"Revel in the silence of rain, foolish man," She said with an unusual mock. "It is a test, this thing, to see what one truly is. To see how they react in an adverse situation, and you, like a statue, sit here in frustration."

"It irritates me!" I cried, with uncharacteristic volume. "I can't move, I can't see, I can't hear myself play, it feels like I'm disabled, useless, just nature's prey!"

And it occurred to me too late, that my words, in fact, had hurt Her. Because She pursed Her lips in response, and turned away.

"Disability is not useless," She whispered. "And we all are nature's prey. All of us are disabled, in one or another way. All of us are blind, or deaf, or even dumb: some are all together. And you, dear friend, are one such man, and let me tell you this: My blank eyes have seen more of this world, than your lit ones ever will."

The rain was calmer now, though a drizzle still raged on, but I walked to the piano this time, and started playing a song. As the notes floated in the air, a silence filled the room. And then She walked over to me and sat down on a stool.

I played on and on, the drizzle a part of my sonata now, and that, the silence, Her, and I, all became a part of the song. Her breathing whistled a soothing tune, and our hearts beat some fainted drums. And with Her there, drenched in the rain, all my frustration was fast gone.

"I'm sorry," I whispered at some point.

And She asked me, "Is it the day now, or night?"

And as my fingers glided over the keys, I suggested, "Why don't you ask your mind?"

And She strained Her ears at that, and closed Her eyes. Her hands looped around my waist, and I tried not to become too dazed. She opened Her eyes after a while, and looking out of the window at the bright, sunlit sky, smiled the smallest of smiles, and said,

"It's night, I'm sure. I can hear the moon cry."

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