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The Rain |
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Thoughts
Without Boundaries Thoughts
of love & longing |
She was 28 years old and successful when it began to rain. She was the youngest in her family, by far the most intelligent and perhaps the most vivacious, which as the daughter of Solabh "Soul" Saksena took some doing. She was sufficiently proud of all this when the clouds gathered. In fact, she was recalling bits of her misspent youth when the first drops hit her on her cheeks. With mild surprise, she noted that 16 floors below, the cricket game of the urchins had not abated. The reflections off the wet road created a surreal double image of flaying arms and legs and swishing cricket bats. The sea in the distance was slowly disappearing. It was hiding itself in the pollution grey of the monsoon sky. She tried, but she couldn't think of anything that described the colour better. Everything she saw seemed to be in the distance. The
rain was a curtain, it was delicate. It was fragile. You had to
talk in soft, gentle tones, else the rain would get scared and disappear.
She tried hard not to think too loudly, and then stopped thinking
altogether. Somewhere in the house and at the back of her mind,
a CD played a blue tune. Something in her head whispered that the
colours blue and grey went well together. The rain seemed to agree.
It swirled the blue music around under its hood and felt its mood
and shivered with romantic apprehension. Her next thought, twenty minutes later was that the rain had left her. No, it hadn't. Yes it had, and this was a different rain. Definitely a different rain. Not so gentle, not nearly as fragile. Incessant - yes it was definitely more intrusive. It was impatient. It poked and prodded, and whished around the side of the balcony to peep in through the next window before it came rushing back again. It demanded attention. It was so …… male ! She shrank back, suddenly awkward at sharing a hood with a boisterous male. The rain didn't notice. It was too caught up in its own display of energy. The squally nature of the rain had obscured most of the street. The rain had bullied the urchins away - it was a rain that had grown up in the streets anyway. The CD felt out of place and hesitated and stopped. The rain didn't notice. It was dancing with the neighbour's guitar solo. And she watched, despite herself, this show of manly ability, conscious of the fact that her clothes were soaked and translucent and outlined her body tantalisingly for the pleasure of the rain. It came dancing at her. It embraced her. She fought only for a second, for the rain had gone as suddenly. It was impatient - too impatient and she needed more time. Years and months. That was how she measured herself. Her house was 6 months old. Her hairstyle was half that. Her last relationship didn't even make it to the scale. Her most prized possession, her Egyptian relic - found by her on a trip with a man many months ago, was too old for this scale. It irritated her that the rain didn't care - for the rain, life was all counted in drops and droplets. She switched the CD back on. It was a hop-hop, skiffle kind of music. It took a large part of her attention without trying very hard. It wasn't her, that was just the kind of music it was. The sky rolled some thunder in appreciation too. The skiffle took a bow in the flash of the lightening, changed into a low cut Latin dress and invited the thunderstorm to jive. The rain obliged. She was left standing by the dance floor, a little nervous girl, too scared to be asked for a dance, watching bodies come together in latino movement. Her syncopated breath caught on the Samba. Her breast rose and fell with the tide of the Rhumba. The thunderstorm clearly knew its stuff. It picked up beat without as much moving a step. It exuded style and power. It was finely muscled, cleverly chiselled and dark. The streetlights blinked like stars. The rain danced on. She was now its partner. She thought she would end up treading on its feet, but it was too strong and gentle for that. She was dancing with her father. He was holding her and his face was strong… And then it was aging. The grey bits shone through the darker clouds and the rain grew old and weak. And she wanted to hold on to it so hard, but she only had months and days. The rain needed to be held in droplets. She cried for her father but he was gone. And in his place there were twinkling stars. And as she dried her tears and watched them appear in hundreds, she realised that for her, it was the first rain in 28 years. Mumbai
13th Jun 1997
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