The Clouds
The land lay weary beneath the relentless glare of the summer sun. The once fertile earth of Ganeshpuri had cracked open in fatigue, deep fissures running through the barren fields like veins in a parched palm. The river Teja, once alive with sparkling, playful waters, had receded into scattered, stagnant pools—mere memories of its joyous flow. Its song silenced, its bed lay exposed, crusted with dry silt. The Mandakini too bore the weight of the drought—her waters turned a sluggish black, streaked with brown where the mud had surfaced, losing the clarity that once mirrored the skies.
Above, the heavens remained cruelly clear, the blue sky stretched taut, with no promise of relief. The sun reigned like a tyrant, hurling down fiery orbs that scorched the land and seared the skin. Children, their backs mottled with prickly heat, tossed and turned, too restless to find comfort. Even the cattle, creatures of endurance, stood listless—jaws working half-heartedly on dry, brittle grass that crackled under their breath like paper. The air shimmered with heat, still and suffocating.
In the heart of this sweltering stillness sat He—He-the One who was ever untouched by the dualities of nature, yet compassionate enough to share in their effects. His bare chest glistened with sweat, and every now and then, He would gently dab at it with a soft cloth. By His side, Babanna Shetty stood with unwavering devotion, waving a large jute fan. But even the fanning brought no respite—the air it stirred was warm, like the breath of a furnace. It felt as though time itself had melted under the blaze, and the season of agony would never end. The sun had not only risen but now seemed to race against itself, trying to outdo its own fury.
And then—it happened.
A tremor passed through the sky. A shift. A whisper.
Suddenly, without warning, dark clouds gathered on the distant horizon. Like silent pilgrims, they moved in from the Western Ghats, thick and full, swallowing the ruthless sun in one swift, divine gesture. The wind stirred. First gently, then with a force that raised swirls of dust across the village paths. Doors creaked and windows clattered—not in protest, but in joy, as if applauding the arrival of the long-awaited guest. Then came the first drops—bold and round, striking the hot earth with audible relief. The scent of mitti—wet earth—rose like an offering, sweet and ancient, known to every Indian heart.
Children poured out into the open, arms flung wide, faces lifted skyward. Their shrieks of laughter and delight echoed through the village as rain lashed down in sudden abundance, drenching all in its path. Their little backs, once covered in prickly boils, now soothed by the cool balm of the monsoon, danced and twirled in ecstatic abandon. The whole land seemed to sing—leaves shivered with joy, parched roots drank greedily, and animals looked up as if awakened from a deep stupor.
And amidst it all, He sat quietly.
Now, draped in the cool breeze and gentle darkness, His eyes half-closed in a knowing stillness. He sat unmoving, yet everything in nature seemed to move in rhythm with Him. For those who could see, the transformation was not just meteorological—it was divine.
He would soon manifest far away, in the sacred town of Pandharpur. There, under the same dark monsoon skies, He would take the form of Vitthala—the Dark One, the Beloved, the Magnet of the devotees’ hearts. The Varkaris, soaked in both rain and devotion, would walk for miles chanting His name with aching sweetness, “Vithu Mauli! Vithu Mauli!” And just like these rains, He would descend—not as thunder, but as grace—into every waiting heart.
