Rain

This evening smelled strangely similar to my adolescent days, just when the cavernous cloud swooped down from nowhere to dance across the Kalaghoda road and then vanish just as freakishly, as if its sole mission had been to romance with the curves and the bends of the art hub of Mumbai. The sky glowed a greyish black. Air pressure felt low and I knew something definitely was headed this way.

I could see the damsel snuggling up to her biker Romeo as the first burst of rain pounded its windshield. Cold rain pelted on the corrugated roof of the music store ‘Rhythm House”. The soaked cat laid swelling on the pavement beside the drain. Water ran freely through man holes on the tarred road, the symphony of navigating water through a dozen channels merged with a sound of men urinating onto the corners.

Behind the surreal tiffany, the buildings looked abandoned, something melancholic about their streaked windows. The limping beggar squinted against the grime and dangled his muddy bare feet from the cemented staircase across the museum. An old man waded through water and leaned against the lamp-post with a cup of tea, all eager to settle the dust of his life when the rain trickled in. An avalanche of rain blurred the orange glow of the lamppost. Was this the hour of sunset or sunrise, good-bye or just the beginning? Impossible to say. Rain is a noisy but a harmless nuisance- a squealer but innocuous. We take comfort in it, often love it and we like to be consumed in its many shades.

The rain is a lethal combination of acid, dust and sometimes breathes of strained relationships. It builds its waterfront homes, the somewhat dreamy, beloved abode that speaks of love and passions. It drives you north upwind and along the river hidden from the view of half-dozen two-storey plumes. Then suddenly on a whim, on days with stiff north-westerly wind, it collapses the house and disappears.

Meghna Maiti