Not the light, pleasant pitter-patter that does its due by the paddy fields and parched cows and whatnot. Not the half-baked shower that dissapears to moment you get home. This is a proper torrent; heavy sheets of rain smashing down minute after minute after hour after hour…
You get the drift.
It’s still going just as strong as it was when I got off the bus, an hour ago, and got hit smack in the face by one of those gust-of-wind-plus-rainwater combinations.
Blaargh. I made for the nearest cover I could, which happened to be this semi-posh “gamey kadey” themed joint. I snuck inside. There was a tank with two huge fish right at the entrance. From what I could see, they weren’t enjoying life at that particular moment, either.
Unfortunately, if you’re going to shelter for any length of time inside premises like that, people expect you to buy something. Especially if one has abandoned the usual scruffy Tshirt and happens to be in a fairly respectable shirt, looking as if one could actually afford to buy something. My wallet wasn’t feeling all too healthy, so I tactfully ninja’d over one step further down the road – or up the road. There was a vegetable stand with more wet people than vegetables in it. Not my thing. Next door was a pokey Highland milk shop. I sprinted inside and waited.
As I – we- waited, I watched people go by. There is a passage between these two shops that leads to the junction, and through this poured a stream of people fleeing the rain. It had been a depressing week, and I was feeling curiously melancholy at the moment – feelings I can only admit to in writing, because when I’m around anyone, I cheer up. Surrounded by humanity, yet isolated from them by the noise and the incessant downpour of rain, I watched. I saw men go by, their shirts wet, sheltering their office-bags. I saw a woman in a red saree tiptoe across the road, her saree lifted to prevent its hem from getting wet. I watched her and the people looking at her. I saw a woman get stabbed in the cheek by an umbrella and rush off, clutching her face. The umbrella was wielded by a short, stout woman who was using it to shelter her little son.
They didn’t notice.
Eventually I got fed up and walked home. People hiding under the great concrete legs of the highway looked at me as if I was mad, but fuck em. That song by Stone Sour – Red City, from the House of Gold and Bones part 2 – kept playing in my head, and I enjoyed every minute of it.
Until the pages of this book are filled with emptiness
I’m still suspended by a thread
Expecting nothing less
I feel my kindred little ways
I know how my story ends
It’s not your gift to choose
I know you’re going to lose