The sky is almost dark, save for those last golden tinges that would fade in no time. As palm trees mark the oblivion, a muddy reflection forms the ground. The last few days were mostly rainy. So profound is our love for rain. And why wouldn't we? Unlike most other seasons, rain is so tender. A drop of patience which is about to reach its final destiny. Every time I look at raindrops, they remind me of a struggle. A journey that begins with summer in an aura of dry and burning heat. And in no time, the drop loses its sources. The long-held identity of its mother. With the loss of identity, an awakening awaits. The pleasure of reaching out and bonding. As our drop moves up and up the end of the sky, it realises the futility of pride and the necessity to bond. This comes with age. Not until it is near Earth does it agree to meet with other wanderers of the new world. And finally, all our drops reach the cold atmosphere. The coldness makes life dreary and lonely. As the youthfulne...