It begins to rain. The whole world runs for shelter. Or their protective gear comes out. Umbrellas. Raincoats. Make do sheets of plastic or even newspapers.

But not me. I take off my glasses. Take off my shoes. And walk slowly into the rain.

Not any more actually. But I am allowed to remember…reminisce, am I not?

I don’t know when, where and how I picked up this habit. But it was one of the most beautiful experiences in my life and I regret that I had to give it up. I don’t miss my cigarettes. I don’t miss my alcohol. I think I won’t even miss my desserts when I eventually give them up. But I miss my walks.

The earliest walk in the rain I remember, was on a trek. We were walking in amazing countryside when it began to drizzle. I could see some groups running for the trees. But the people I was with, just kept walking.

And I recognized a kinship and a bond and walked on with them. I took off my glasses. And suddenly the whole world was clearer.

As in I could see every rain drop that headed for me, while the rest of the world was blurred, in soft focus and the colors of nature took on a soft edge magic of their own.

My hair, of which I had quite enough in those days, would slowly settle down into a flat scalp hugging overflow and strands would bunch up into points that allowed secondary raindrops to fall seductively onto my nose tip.

Unlike sweat that required me to keep rubbing my eyes, rain water just washed itself away. My clothes too, whatever I was wearing, would naturally get wet and hug my body closer for comfort. The squishiness in my walk that resulted was an experience of its own.

Somewhere along the way, on that walk or the next, I discovered that taking off my shoes gave me a connect with nature that was more intimate and personal. And that became a habit. Every time it began to rain, I’d kick off my shoes, take off my glasses and walk.

Was it the feeling on top of my unprotected head? Or was it the near sexual bliss of digging my toes into the ground and curling my toes in ecstasy? Or was it the wonder of feeling my clothes wet on me and eventually, quite soon after when the Sun came out with vengeance, drying up while I was still inside them?

I don’t know. All I know is that this whole cycle of a little wet-mostly dry, half wet-half dry and fully wet going on to mostly wet-dry in places, to mostly dry was a process that fascinated me. I loved the feel of the earth. I loved the smell of the rain. I loved the sliding of water, even droplets, down my cheeks, down my chest and ticklingly down my spine.

When I tried it for the first time in Hyderabad I wasn’t too sure how my feet would take to the asphalt. How my skin would react to the pollution in the air (yes, even in those days). Most important I wasn’t sure how my parents would react.

Luckily this was in the 70s and Hyderabad still held onto some semblance of cleanliness. And a trip around Banjara Hills was actually quite picturesque. We could actually feel the ‘hills’ and see the ‘valleys’.

Even when I was in college in Madras, I used to sneak off for a walk down Sterling Road except that I used to act as if I got caught by a sudden shower…not because I was scared of what my friends would think, but because I did not want to share the experience with anyone. It was a personal hideaway, a personal me-moment and almost an affair.

Only when I got married did I share this kink, and a lot of people thought it was just that – a kink, with my wife. And imagine my thrill, my supreme satisfaction when she turned out to be a kindred soul. And we used to take on the showers of Madras with aplomb.

Several times, both in Hyderabad and Madras, friends passing by in cars would stop and offer me a lift but I always refused. Strangely I never tried this in Delhi, Bombay, Bangalore etc., but I did try it often in Germany.

For a while I was n a small village called Halfing, near Munich where I worked for a few hours everyday and spent the rest of my time catching up with the small town culture of that region, Saw a lot of plays and shows. Scootered through the countryside. And walked in the rain. With shoes on please. I was scared my feet would freeze.

In fact even by the time I was back in Hyderabad and would take both my dogs individually for a walk, I was quite comfortable with the rain. Though things in the vicinity had deteriorated so much that barefoot was an invitation to disease or disaster.

But then lifestyle changes began to take place. My job became more managerial and more about creative writing. I had people who would do the walking for me on a shoot. And I guess I became lethargic.

And soon, the guy who used to love his walks in the rain refused to step into a shower until he was sure that there was a geyser attached.

And then the health issues. And loss of muscle due to long periods in bed in the ICU, the MICU and the Hospital Rooms.

I don’t walk any more. I can with great difficulty walk to the end of my street and back.

But I shall never forget the lifetime of pleasure that this simple act has always given me. A pleasure that with scant hair and a body gone to seed, I can at best replicate by taking a couple of steps while the shower is doing its job.