I had sent my poems to seven different publications and none of them wanted to give me a chance. I felt all my effort going down the drain, much like the overflowing gutters at the onset of monsoon. When I turned on the television, as if he read my mood, the Weatherman warned, “Overcast skies promise a thunderstorm this evening.” I resigned to a gloomy day, brooding all by myself.
Suddenly, at half past four, I decided if it is raining, I might as well get soaked. Make hay while the sun shines, get soaked when the clouds pour, I told myself. When I got out though, I was surprised. The blue skies rained sunshine, no trace of the storm. And just like that, I decided to make hay. I wrote another poem, inspired by the Weatherman’s wrong prediction and the bountiful sunshine.
As I saw the sun set into the distant fields, I realised that my peace was not at the hands of those publication houses. They would have perhaps helped spread my peace, if more readers read my works. But my happiness lay in making hay while the sun shone and getting soaked when it poured. And that, nobody could take away. Not even the Weatherman.