It was a late afternoon of June when I was sitting in the courtyard of the primary school in Nandigram which was now home to many homeless inhabitants who had been driven away from their houses. Some had voluntarily given up their abodes; fear was the cause.

The once peaceful village in West Bengal, home to many farmers, was now a battle ground where the communist were seizing land from the farmers- their only source of income.

The playing field of the school sheltered old women, children who were busy making merry in their usual recreational matter, unaware of the danger that was slowly moving towards them. Some ladies cooked rice in the corner of the field. Rice was the only source to kill hunger; it was being served for breakfast, lunch and dinner with an occasional chilly and onion thrown in for a change of taste.

I knew what will be served for the next meal.

A woman sitting near the cooking place seemed to be lost in a world of her own as her eyes senselessly followed the kids running around in the field. The agony was evident from the tears that were about to break shores and allow the salty waters to gush out violently but something held them tightly behind the shore.

The month of June usually welcomed monsoons but this year the skies were quite. It was end of the month and the rains had not paid a visit to the farmers who relied heavily on them both for their crops and to calm the intense heat of summer’s scorching sun. When normal life prevailed in the parish, the first showers were anxiously awaited and celebrated with community gathering and offerings to God.
This year no one seemed to be bothered except the old lady who always sat by the door in the passageway which led to the classrooms. She gazed at the skies all day long as if the rains will come and wash away all her sufferings. Somehow, I had started to believe in her faith.

The sky was calm since the morning but I found the old lady restless since the morning, she had kept aside some uncooked rice in a broken porcelain bowl, the same way she had done for years to prepare the offerings to welcome the rain. Every now and then she counted something on her fingers and fixed her gaze again on the sky. My focus on the agonized woman near the cooking place was disturbed when a kid stopped chasing his friend to notice what has fallen on his face. It was followed by another drop and the sky thundered its blessing on the anguished hearts. The children had found yet another reason to be amused. The carefree little souls danced as the tiny trinkets of joy bestowed their affection upon them.

I continued to watch the woman as she found camouflage in the showers when the shores finally broke away, unnoticed and unattended. She continued to stare futilely at the children enjoying the drizzle unaffected by the solace the drizzle had brought along. She used it to bare her soul. Tears mingled with the rain.

The old lady had known that her delight was on its way. She was waiting apprehensively ready with her offering. For the first time the old lady smiled, the pleasure was apparent on the wrinkled lines of her face. She stood up and welcomed the first showers. She walked in the middle of the field, closed her eyes, opened her arms and let the tiny drops with healing powers touch her every wound. She stood there in the midst surrounded by joyous children.

The tiny trinkets became a source of joy for some; while giving freedom to the pain hidden within a soul and becoming a healer for the one who had relied on it for generations.

May each spirit find their reason every time the heavens bestow their blessing upon the human soul.

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