the orange rain

It rained the whole night. And he kept staring at it through the half-open window of his room.
He could not see much due to the darkness of the night and the mango tree that acted as an unwanted umbrella shielding the moonlight.
The sound of the falling raindrops, the noise of the moist, cool wind jostling with wet, washed, shy leaves (were they scrambling for cover or enjoying the flirtatious breeze's advancements?), the occasional croak of frogs and intermittent guffaws of thunder made him constantly remember the rain though. He crept out of his bed, opened the lock of his gate slowly so as not to disturb the sleep of other people in the house, pushed it open with care to reduce the noise of steel against steel. He was out, staring at the duly washed roads: neat, as if someone had just cleaned them with Her own hands for ablution, shining black and wet, reflecting the stray moon-rays that had found their way through the spaces between the jasmine tree branches, like attraction finding way through prejudices. All of the day's dust had been washed away.

Was it utterly necessary to envoice all that he had in mind, did he really mean all that he said or did she ? All his choices directed by reason and reason alone ? No pride, no temptation, no revenge, no desire hidden ? Were his motives all noble ? Did he not know the answer to all his questions ? Did all her words have sincerity behind them; no flippancy, no mock? Was not that a moment's nay many more moment's weakness, a slip-up, an attempt to be something he really did not want to rather was not prepared to be, a hope to see, to find something when that was not there. He knew it, but still he hoped for things to improve. Time, he thought would teach the best. It did, but it was he who was the student.

A lot of dust had settled in. He waited for one more shower of rain.