A little rain was all it took. Ok, not little, because the sky came crashing down, along with some trees and electric poles. Sharp pokey needles pierced my face and neck as I zipped blindly through road lakes. In between two great splashes arching out from either side of my bike, I suddenly realised how completely drenched I was. What’s the point now, of rushing home? So a circuitous route taken, some plastic cover wearing people seen, and rain songs loudly blubbered, I got home.
"Shit, my cell phone! Oh god, my wallet! Yaaa, my cheque book!" All wet. Colours meeting each other on Gandhi’s face. Little blue waves on my account number. I’m all soaked, and there’s a droplet tickling the end of my nose, still unsure about landing on the floor. I shouldn’t have to worry about sodden paper, dammit.
So the dripping bag was chucked in the corner, wet hair ignored, and rain soaked in.
I feel a secret amusement at how the morning after suddenly looks like life in slow motion. Civility, parched and scabbing till now, has become fresh and dew-sprayed. Everyone’s breathing is leisured, walking softer, singing louder.
No flying tempers, no nonsense-boys wanting to overtake you from all sides and crash and die all the time. No chest starers, mirror and crotch adjusters. Loosely flapping shirts, clean wet-from-the-puddle feet, raspy voices, cups of tea, and white clouds. I look around more, and wonder about right-lanes, "Stop Horn OK Please", "Nodey ley Upendra", a Gent’s beauty parlour board illustrated with the pic of a boy being facesqueezed into a haircut. Wonder why tumblers are better than cups & saucers. And why skipstepping, once started, cannot be stopped.
The air is clean of intrusive dust particles that otherwise make for dangerous irritants when combined with sweat. The tar road is not a sheet of heat anymore, and even the blaring horns have shut up (except for the occasional idiot who I curse to burn in acid rain).
Yes I know it’s hot again. Not dry, though.
