Chapter 10 - Journey in Rain

 

10

 

            The bus had been running through a land that looked thirsty for centuries.

 

            Fields stretched endlessly on both sides of the road, cracked and pale under the harsh afternoon sun. Dust floated in the air so lightly that even the trees seemed coated in exhaustion. The ponds had shrunk into muddy memories. Buffaloes stood half-asleep near dry canals. Farmers sat silently under scattered trees, not talking much, not expecting much.

 

            Summer in villages is not merely a season.  It is a slow test of patience.

 

            Inside the bus, the passengers looked tired too. A child kept rubbing his face against the window glass. A man beside me unfolded yesterday’s newspaper again and again although he had probably read every line already. An old woman carried a cloth bag full of vegetables covered carefully with a wet towel so they would not dry out before reaching home.

 

            The conductor wiped sweat from his neck and muttered, “If rain doesn’t come this week, crops are finished.”

 

            Nobody replied.  Because some fears are too common to discuss.

 

            I looked outside again.

 

            A farmer stood alone in the middle of his field, staring upward at the sky as if waiting for a reply from someone invisible. His turban looked faded. His shoulders carried the tiredness of many failed seasons. Near him, a tractor stood motionless like an animal that had lost hope of movement.

 

            And suddenly, without warning, the wind changed.  The dry leaves near the roadside began to dance.  The sky darkened slowly…not with anger, but with mercy.

 

            People inside the bus noticed it at once. Heads turned toward the windows. Even conversations paused midway. Somewhere far away, thunder rolled softly across the horizon.

 

            Then came the first drop.  A single dark spot appeared on the dusty road.  Then another.  Then hundreds.   Within moments, rain began falling over the fields.  Not heavily. Not violently.  Just enough to awaken the earth.  And something extraordinary happened.

 

            The farmers who had been sitting silently suddenly stood up. One man removed his turban and looked toward the sky with folded hands. Another began shouting something joyfully to a distant field. Children came running barefoot from nearby houses. Women rushed outside to collect drying clothes but smiled while doing so.

 

            The entire landscape changed in less than five minutes.

 

            Rain does not only change weather in villages.  It changes breathing patterns.

 

            The man sitting beside me smiled for the first time since boarding the bus.

 

            “God remembered us today,” he whispered.

 

            I kept watching the fields.

 

            The dry soil absorbed the rain greedily, like a letter finally reaching someone who had waited too long.

 

            In cities, rain is often inconvenience.  Traffic increases. Roads flood. Offices get delayed. People complain about wet shoes and internet problems.

 

            But in villages, rain still carries emotion.  A farmer does not check rain merely with his eyes.

He checks it with loans, seeds, debts, and the future of his children.  That is why farmers look toward clouds differently.

            City people check weather forecasts.  Farmers read clouds like holy scriptures.

 

            I remembered my childhood days when rain was not predicted by mobile applications but by silence in the air. Old villagers would study the movement of birds, the direction of winds, the behavior of ants, and the shape of clouds.

 

            One old farmer in our village used to say, “When the sky becomes too quiet, rain is preparing its footsteps.”

 

            Back then, I used to laugh at such lines.  Today, sitting beside this dusty bus window, I realized that educated people often know data while simple people know life.  Modern science can measure rainfall.  But only farmers understand its emotional weight.

 

            The bus slowed near a small tea stall where a few men had gathered under a temporary roof of tin sheets. Rainwater dripped from the edges steadily. Steam rose from fresh tea.  One young farmer stood outside deliberately getting drenched. His clothes clung to his body, but he did not care.  Perhaps some happiness arrives so late that people stop protecting themselves from it.

 

            The smell of wet soil entered the bus.  That smell has no equal in the world.  It smells like relief.  Like survival.  Like another chance.

 

            A little boy near the front seat stretched his hand outside the window to catch raindrops. His mother scolded him softly, but even she was smiling. Across the road, two stray dogs ran wildly through puddles as if celebrating a forgotten festival.

 

            Rain makes rich and poor equal for a few moments.  Everyone looks upward.

 

            The bus resumed moving.

 

            Raindrops slid slowly down the glass beside me, blurring the fields outside into watercolor paintings. Somewhere in that blurred landscape, farmers were already calculating new hope.

 

            Perhaps that is what human beings truly survive on…not certainty, but possibility.

 

A season can fail.

A crop can die.

Money can disappear.

But as long as hope returns like rain, people continue sowing seeds.

 

            And maybe that is why villages still possess a strange strength despite poverty.  Cities teach people how to earn.  Villages teach people how to endure.

 

            As rain intensified, I noticed something deeper. 

 

            Farmers never celebrate rain selfishly.  One farmer’s happiness automatically includes neighboring fields too. When clouds gather, entire villages pray together without entering temples.  Because agriculture silently teaches collective destiny.  If rain fails, everybody suffers.  If rain arrives, everybody breathes easier.

 

            Perhaps modern society became lonely because people stopped depending on each other’s survival.  In villages, nature still reminds humans that nobody survives alone.

 

            The old man across the aisle suddenly began speaking to another passenger about previous drought years. He mentioned how some farmers had sold jewelry, some had mortgaged land, and some had silently left villages forever in search of labor work.

 

            Rain, then, is not romance for them.  It is economics.  It is dignity.  It is continuation.

 

            I looked again outside.

 

            A scarecrow stood in the middle of a field getting soaked completely. Its torn shirt fluttered wildly in the wind.  For a strange moment, it looked less lonely than many humans I have seen in cities.

 

Because loneliness does not come from standing alone.

 

It comes from standing unnoticed.

 

            And villages, despite all their struggles, still notice each other.

 

            The bus crossed a narrow bridge where rainwater had begun gathering below. Children were already splashing barefoot in muddy water while their mothers shouted warnings from a distance they knew would be ignored.

 

            I smiled unconsciously.

 

            Childhood has a beautiful relationship with rain.  Children do not calculate consequences first.  Adults do. 

 

            Perhaps growing up simply means replacing joy with caution.

 

            As the road curved around another village, I saw an elderly farmer standing absolutely still in his field under the rain. He was neither running nor working. He was simply standing there with closed eyes.

 

            That image stayed with me.

 

            Maybe after carrying worry for months, his heart needed a few moments to believe relief was real.  Some blessings arrive so quietly that humans need time to trust them.

 

            The rain now beat harder against the bus roof.

 

            Passengers began speaking more cheerfully. Even the conductor’s voice sounded lighter while announcing stops. It was astonishing how quickly weather could change human behavior.

 

            Then again, perhaps weather outside only reveals weather inside us.  I wondered how many invisible droughts people carry within themselves.  Some people wait for financial rain.  Some wait for emotional rain.  Some wait for respect.  Some wait for forgiveness.  And some silently become deserts while pretending to be normal.

 

            Not every dry field is made of soil.

 

            A young man sitting nearby checked his mobile weather application and proudly announced, “It says rain will continue for two more days.”

 

            An old farmer laughed softly.

 

            Then he replied, “Phones tell possibility. Clouds tell truth.”

 

            Nobody argued with him.  Because experience speaks differently.

 

            The bus stopped near a roadside temple painted in fading colors. Rainwater flowed down the temple steps while a priest carefully moved flower baskets inside.  Near the entrance stood a farmer with folded hands facing the sky rather than the temple itself.

 

            That sight touched me deeply. 

 

            When survival depends upon nature, prayer becomes less formal and more honest.  Perhaps true prayer is not memorized language.  Perhaps true prayer is helplessness mixed with hope.

 

            As evening approached, the dark clouds spread farther across the horizon. The fields that had looked dead a few hours earlier now carried movement, smell, and expectation.

 

            It was the same land.  Only the sky had changed.  And maybe human life is similar too.

 

            Sometimes nothing changes except one moment of grace.  Yet that single moment becomes enough to continue everything again.

 

            The bus window had become cold now. I rested my forehead against it and watched raindrops race downward.

 

            For years, I believed strength meant controlling emotions.  But villages teach another truth.

 

            Strength is waking up every season despite uncertainty.  Strength is sowing seeds without guarantees.  Strength is borrowing money and still praying for tomorrow.  Strength is looking at an empty sky for months and not losing faith in clouds.

 

            The farmer understands something modern people often forget: Life has always depended upon forces beyond human control. 

 

            That is why farmers remain humble before nature.

 

            The educated man believes he controls life.  The farmer knows he only participates in it.

 

            Outside, lightning flashed briefly across the darkening sky.  For one second, the entire countryside glowed silver.  Fields. Trees. Roads. Water. Faces.  Everything looked connected.     And suddenly I understood why rain affects villages emotionally.  Because rain is proof that the sky still remembers the earth.

 

            The bus moved forward through the wet evening while the smell of soil continued entering quietly through half-open windows.

 

            No passenger complained anymore.

 

            Sometimes relief itself becomes conversation enough.

 

            And somewhere behind us, farmers were probably still standing in their fields, letting rain fall on their faces like blessings that had finally found their address.