Seven days in rain, in the Western Ghats, was a sort of revisiting those days when I first came to know about the feeling of helplessly getting drenched. It was in 2006, and in the same Ghats, that I first saw people appearing and vanishing in a wet curtain of clouds, all shrouded in blankets, like walking mummies. I was 10 years younger then, and therefore was able to see beyond vanishing roads and disappearing butterflies. In the same Ghats 10 years later—in the same Igatpuri, Malsejghat, Prabalgarh—I can now feel that raindrops are also fragile, and the howling wind can also weep. A place remains the same place, but the visitor changes, he ages, he grows a sense of crossing years as if in sleep. So there I stood once more, in the valleys- mountains- waterfalls, just 10 years older. And nothing seemed the same, nothing seemed right. All I can hear now is a gushing flow of rain cascading down the hills, just opaque, no more seen.