I heard about the violent thunderstorms of Sri Lanka, how lightning kind of follow you around. Wow! Last night was extraordinary. My heart was in my mouth, as was often said. Blasting from all corners, rainwater gushing out of spaces between doors and floors, streaming out of unsealed openings between roof tiles and wooden beams of the ceiling, drenching layers upon layers of old newspapers. I noticed a smiling Obama.
The dogs were prancing about in the foyer, grateful for dry cover. They crunched lazily on Pedigree. Really, I was scaredy-scared. Fiery things erupted by the kitchen, eyeball-busting lightning danced in our front and back gardens. The lights flickered, the TV faltered.
But floating above all these banging, spluttering, frying, blazing, shattering, crashing, thundering din, were the amplified singsong, chanting voices of Buddhist monks, praying peacefully in a nearby temple, unmindful of the torment and tribulation outside.
We survived the night's torrent, but the morning brought more heavy rain.
This monsoon reigns.
