The pitter-patter of autumn rain taps on the bluestone slabs, which exude beads of water, reflecting uneven silvery gloss. The misty rain obscures the distant mountains and rolling slopes. The village is quiet, with occasional barks of dogs and chicken clucks floating from the thickets. The air is steeped with the fragrance of soil and grass, permeating the surroundings of the dwellings.

Purple vines clinging to the wall corners tremble gently, laden with raindrops. Curtains of water stream down from the thatched roofs, flowing over weathered thresholds. In the deserted village paths, raindrops form rippling rings, fracturing the reflected world.

On such rainy days, villagers stay indoors, listening placidly to the rain, hands occupied with sewing or turning pages of faded books. Perhaps these are the most beautiful times in the countryside, as everything is rejuvenated by the cleansing showers.

The rain nourishes this land, and waters the simple hearts of the people. We in cities reminisce about the rainy village, where unfathomable belongingness resides. Maybe we all yearn for an idyllic paradise of our own.