Pitter Patter Raindrops

A friend posted a comment on Facebook, calling to mind childish rhymes associated with the season – the wet and windy Indian monsoon.

I was taken back in time to all the happy memories which had taken a backseat, particularly in view of the havoc wreaked in recent years. I remembered the joy of that first pair of gumboots – fire-engine red. The first puddle and the giant splish-splash caused by a well aimed jump at dead centre. Dancing in the rain and getting drenched. Twirling umbrellas of every hue, turning a grey day into a rainbow. Childish poems lisped excitedly, coaxed into existence by adult coaching. And one of my favourite songs: Joy is like the Rain – a simple melody composed and sung by the Medical Missionaries a long, long time ago. Isn’t it funny how one jog to the memory can release a chain of thought?

To a child, rain is an enjoyable variation in the seasons. Hot pakodas and butter melting off roasted corn-on-the-cob, finger lickin’ good. Cancelled schooldays. Sailing paper boats in suddenly appearing rivers off the kerbs. Tracing the path of raindrops on a steamy window, watching a drenched world without, from the safety within.

The adult perspective has a more jaundiced view (pun intended!). Monsoons mean gastro, dengue, malaria, floods, traffic snarls, open manholes, collapsing buildings, leakages – inconveniences galore. The adult world is not a nice place to be.

And, suddenly, I think of snails. Snails, tiny and large, crawling on leaves and across window sills, lured by the freshened earth. And I have a poem to share with you, a poem which brings together the adult, the child and snails!

For a 5-year old – Fleur Adcock

A snail was climbing up the window sill

Into your room after a night of rain.

You called me in to see and I explain

That it would be unkind to leave it there.

It might crawl to the floor, we must take care

That no one squashes it. You understand

And carry it outside with careful hand

To eat a daffodil.

I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails;

Your gentleness is moulded, still, by words

From me who have trapped mice and shot wild birds.

From me who drowned your kittens and who betrayed

Your closest relatives and who purveyed

The harshest kind of truth to many another.

But that is how things are. I am your mother

And we are kind to snails.

Note: The graphic is from Discovery's School Clip Art