Memories come back, of rain water , trickling down the canals of roof tiles. On to ground, making puddles in soft gravel. Brown floods gushing down the road , washing down all dusty sins , ankle deep, gathering to make bigger puddles , to the joy of a seven year old's heart . Holding the promise of amusement, for days. Paper boat races , jumping in the puddles, till the sun finally dries up the muddy waters of joy .
I reminisce the peculiar smell of the earth ,when the heavens stop crying and the first rays of sun spills from the clouds . The image of the last drops of rains, clinging on to the edge of the roof tile, long enough to glitter to the first rays and then letting go to many small puddles aligned with each grove. Inside the house, plastic buckets kept in the hall to catch the rain drops seeping through the cracked tiles.
I sometimes wander whether I haven't moved on from that point of my life. Like an after taste it clings to my mind. I feel like there is Peter pan, in every one of us, refusing to grow up.
Even today when I walk those lanes (once a year or so) , it is literally a stroll down the memory lane. But no more puddles , as the dusty road has since been tarred.
PS: This sculpture is not from Sri Lanka but closer to my new home …