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  • Writer's pictureAhsan Jamil

Rain Drops Keep Falling On My Head

“Without the frown of clouds and lightning, the vines would be burned by the smiling sun.”


As the night began to sleep and morning was still yawning to wake, my crew mates started dropping out. WhatsApp is the most convenient way to announce the absence. I have done it many times, and it works well each time.

At the first tee of Lahore Garrison GCC, the flight was formed, and we took off in great soothing weather. Sporadic clouds sailed over the empty course. The sun appeared and disappeared, playing hide and seek with the clouds. So did my game. Squeezing my skin with goosebumps, the chilly air at the golf club indicated that it was raining close by. Gradually, dark clouds spun into cold drops. The wind caught speed. The golf ball enjoyed the air resistance, diving and turning accordingly. It had no regard for the golfer’s intended directions. My balls, already used to violating my desires on a regular basis, stood to the occasion. The new leaves danced in the wind as the fallen ones flew up like flying tapestry. A spiraling procession of clouds cloaked the sun. My game didn’t go well from the very first ball. My ball would fondly look for roughs, and trees, if it would miss bunkers and water hazards. I no longer was capable of controlling the direction of my shot. It was one of those days. Other than the game, I enjoyed everything this morning had to offer.

I couldn’t ruin my day due to the lack of a few pars and bogeys. I had to find refuge elsewhere. I let the wind’s voice wash me away as it embraced every strand of hair, sizzling me with splendor. It blew its own piper, persuading the trees to cohere with its tunes. The grass, the shrubs, and flower beds all sang in a chorus, enveloped in a rhythmic union. The flags at the post joined them, inviting me to appreciate the moment and forget about the shots.

Being a wanderer, I, myself, wanted to join those dry leaves flying for the heck of it. Instead, I followed suit to keep our flight going. My body was in the game, but my soul had joined the rest of the course. The soil longed for rain. The clouds had traveled to answer her call, quenching its thirst and filling her void.

Once we reached the middle of the seventh fairway, the rain lost its patience and began to pour. Our noses nested with the pleasant petrichor. It gave us no chance to seek shelter in the midway hut. It rained cats and dogs, leaving me drenched as the wind whiplashed against my poor umbrella.

The Ramadan rain fell on me as if nature intended to wash off my sins at that very moment. I don’t know how my young teammates felt, but a surge of purity and cleanliness empowered me.

Urged with enlightenment, we walked briskly to the parking lot, but every step stemmed the journey of a washed and cleansed man. Water always ignites my imagination, but this morning rain reminded me of the heavens beyond those clouds. I might not be able to understand what the heavens meant this morning, but the soil underneath my feet glimmered with hope and smelled of gratitude. The trees and grass bloomed once again, wringing away the droplets of water. Only us humans looked for shelter to avoid this bliss falling from the skies. Everything else was enjoying the falling dexterity of the angel of the weather.

B.J Thomas




Lahore Garrison GCC.


Ahsan Jamil

Golfer, Blogger, Entrepreneur, Author, Poet, Wanderer, photographer, Rebel.



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2 commentaires

02 mai 2021

Absolutely brilliant write up. Beautiful💐🎉


Nadeem Rafi Khan
Nadeem Rafi Khan
02 mai 2021


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