‘The sound of thunder is like an argument between the gods.’
– Rumi, also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī (born 1207); a 13th-century Persian poet, Islamic jurist, and theologian.
At the onset of a sudden tempest, a man plagued by an irrationally paralysing dread of thunder and lightning ran as fast as his legs could carry him towards his sanctuary nestled upon the slope of a hill where his rice field lay.
This refuge, a hollow beneath a rocky ledge, had been carved and fortified by the man’s own hands — its dimensions expanded and walled on three sides. Within, a grown adult could find respite from the elements, shielded from the wrath of even the worst weather.
Almost simultaneously, the man’s wife hastened towards their farm hut, propelled by the pelting rain that mercilessly descended upon her. Our dear mother, who had spent the day lending a hand with the chores upon the farm, trailed not far behind, her tenacious grip desperately clutching her hat, as the howling wind relentlessly sought to snatch it from her head.
As for my little brother and me, we instinctively ran towards the man’s refuge, for it was closer to us than the farm hut lower down the slope where it stood concealed by tall trees on all sides.
The wind howled around us in a wild frenzy as raindrops fell, splattering against our faces, and mingling with our sweat.
The lightning, like a celestial knife, sliced through the darkness, illuminating the landscape with a blinding brilliance, and electrifying the atmosphere.
Just as we reached the shelter, a loud thunderclap reverberated through the air, causing the ground to tremble. It was as if the heavens were unleashing their fury upon the earth. The thunder rolled and echoed, a booming symphony that drowned out all other sounds.
When we tried to get into the man’s shelter, we were taken aback to find the door locked from the inside. We called out to the man, hoping for a response, but all we received was a disheartening silence. After a while, we gave up on our attempts to be let inside.
Thankfully, there was a small space beneath a rock overhang that the man hadn’t barricaded. It wasn’t the cosiest spot, but it provided some protection from the relentless rain. However, the biting wind made us regret not having shirts to shield us from the cold.
With nothing else to occupy us, we surrendered ourselves to the spectacle of the storm. Dark clouds steadily rolled in, casting an eerie shadow over the hillside.
Our eyes widened in awe as, with a burst of blinding brilliance, a jagged bolt of lightning sliced through the late afternoon sky. It cleaved a tall tree in the valley, charring the trunk and launching a plume of smoke and wood fragments into the air.
The world was illuminated by this frenzied display of raw power. The lightning crackled and hissed, a serpentine force tearing through the air and casting eerie shadows over the land below. It seemed as if the heavens themselves were being torn apart, releasing their fury upon an unsuspecting world.
The rain swiftly transformed into a torrential downpour, assaulting everything in its path. Each droplet pounded the ground with a resounding thud, blending with the mighty roar of thunder. Sheets of rain cascaded down, distorting the world into a watery haze and obscuring our vision.
With each thunderclap, the air crackled and vibrated, sending tangible shivers through our bones. Fear mingled with awe as the storm raged on, its wrath unyielding. It both reminded and warned us of nature’s untamed power, offering a glimpse into the primal forces that lie beyond the realm of human control.
As we huddled outside the door, we couldn’t help but wonder why the man had isolated himself inside his shelter. What could have led him to lock the door and suddenly shut himself off from the world?
After several moments, curiosity and boredom got the better of me, and I peered through a hole in the wall that was entirely made up of logs, each about knee-sized, jammed securely into the ground. It was a rudimentary construction, but it served its purpose.
The interior of the shelter was enveloped in darkness, as the sun was obscured by a black cloud. Initially, I was perplexed by the man’s apparent disappearance, as he did not appear to be inside. However, upon closer inspection, I discerned a trembling mound towards the rear of the shelter. After focusing on it for a few moments, I realised that it was indeed the man. He appeared to be kneeling in a fetal position beneath a tattered old black blanket. Amidst the resounding thunder and crackling lightning, I observed him trembling and heard his whimpering.
When I turned away from the wall, I noticed that my little brother was also peering through another hole, witnessing the extraordinary scene. I gently nudged his back to capture his attention, and although he appeared bewildered, he remained silent.
To validate the growing suspicion in my mind, I looked through the hole once more. At that precise moment, a bolt of lightning tore through the sky, accompanied by an earth-shattering boom that reverberated into the distance.
The man then rolled onto his side, attempting to make himself smaller by curling inward. He flinched with each subsequent thunderous rumble and lightning flash.
As was typical of thunderstorms during the farming season, from around September till March each cycle, the tempest did not last long. The raindrops, once falling in torrents, gradually reduced their pace, transforming into a gentle drizzle. The thunder, which previously shook the earth, became distant rumbles, fading into the background. The lightning flashes became less frequent, illuminating the sky in sporadic bursts.
As the storm lost its vigour, a sense of calmness slowly emerged. The dark clouds that veiled the heavens started to break apart, revealing glimpses of the vibrant blue sky beyond. Rays of sunlight pierced through the narrow gaps, casting golden hues upon the wet landscape.
The air, once heavy with moisture, became fresher and cooler as the storm’s intensity subsided. The petrichor, that distinct earthy scent released by raindrops on dry ground, filled the atmosphere, heightening the senses and evoking a feeling of rejuvenation.
The distant rumblings of thunder grew fainter, like a fading symphony bidding its adieu. And then, as if nature itself was unveiling a masterpiece, the clouds parted further, allowing the radiant sun to break through. The warm, golden rays scattered across the landscape, transforming the world from a gloomy grey to a vibrant tapestry of colours. The droplets of water on leaves and petals glistened like tiny diamonds, capturing the brilliance of the sunlight.
As the sun gained strength, the remnants of the storm yielded to its brilliance. The sky cleared, revealing a pristine azure canvas adorned with wisps of white clouds. A sense of serenity embraced the surroundings, and the world seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief.
After one final peek at the poor man under the blanket, Little B and I slowly walked downhill to join our mother at the farm hut. It was time to go home.
Amazingly, though she knew where we had been during the storm, the man’s wife did not ask about her husband. I suspected that she knew what had happened and felt no need to ask any questions. I also suspected that our mother knew but kept her thoughts to herself. As for Little B and me, we both agreed that it was not necessary to mention the matter at all.
Until that moment (circa 1964), I had always considered the man to be as normal as most people in our remote rural village.
I was bewildered by his bizarre behaviour because, while I had seen people seek shelter for safety during thunderstorms, I had never encountered someone who suffered from an extreme or irrational fear of thunder and lightning. I had no such fear and assumed that others felt the same way.
As I grew older, however, I came to realise that many people, regardless of age, suffer from astraphobia, a recognised form of anxiety disorder triggered by thunderstorms and lightning.
Whether a phobia is considered a malady or not can vary depending on the perspective of the sufferer and the impact it has on their life. If the fear significantly disrupts a person’s ability to function, causes severe distress, or leads to avoidance behaviours that limit their daily activities, it can be seen as a malady or disorder that requires attention and treatment.
Astraphobia prevents sufferers from reaching their full potential. They are unable to carry out tasks such as working on their farms or engaging in outdoor activities like construction work or sports during inclement weather.
I also noticed that those in my village who were affected by astraphobia seemed to be ashamed of their fears, going to great lengths to hide them. It was difficult to display “weakness” in a rugged rural farming society that highly valued strong, macho men and looked down upon those considered “soft”.
Occasionally, thoughts of that man cross my mind, even though many years have passed and I now reside in the city, far removed from the physically demanding rural lifestyle.
Now I have an understanding of what astraphobia entails, but that does not mean I fully comprehend its impact on those who suffer from it.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
