Blurry Visions
Part Two: Rain
San Jose, California.
I am sitting on a chair that rocks, looking at the bare branches of a tree in February, and the overcast sky behind them. More than a few sparrows are restless, fluttering away in no particular direction, eager to find shelter. Twenty one years of living through the Indian monsoon with these sparrows tell me that rain is imminent.
I head downstairs for my evening stroll. Can’t let the threat of a few raindrops wash away the enthusiasm of seeing other human life in these times, can I? As you may have guessed, I’m not the kind of person that meticulously checks the weather app on their phone to find an excuse for not doing something I’ve decided to do. I take a deep breath of fresh air before putting on a mask, and contemplate whether to go right or left. No, I didn’t plan that either. Am I the only one who loves a surprise anymore?
I turn right, in the direction of the colorful downtown shops. Maybe a part of me wanted to relive the time we would stop for ice cream at one or catch a football game at another. Some people are walking their dogs, some others are scurrying away with a bag of food they’ve picked up. I look at them, smile & wonder if they realize I am doing that. I also wonder if they’re smiling back. I see that a few of them place a lot of importance on planning in their lives by the umbrellas they are clutching. Imagine a small piece of fabric subverting Mother Nature’s oldest endowment with impunity. It’s amazing and amusing.
Quite a few shops are boarded up now. Some have left their large signs behind, perhaps with a glimmer of hope that they’ll be back one day. Others have left no trace of their last occupants. My mind wanders as I draw parallels to an epitaph on a tombstone and the finality of a cremation.
A few droplets of rain descend on the lenses of my glasses and my cheeks. I look up at the sky, as most around me look down at their phones. An unexpected roll of thunder fractures my reality and transports me to a different time in the past.
Mumbai, India. 5 PM.
My grandmother hunches over a handkerchief filled with coins. I have just returned from school and taken over the designation of errand-in-chief. She picks out two five rupee coins and asks me to get a loaf of bread from the store around the corner. I put the coins in my pocket and run down two flights of stairs and onto the street.
The skies are dark and the stray cats and dogs, in addition to the birds, start to get concerned about finding some cover. It’s early June. Right around the time this metropolis receives its first rain of the season. Could today finally kickstart the 3 months of chaos we’ve all grown to expect in this city?
I look up at the sky, as most around me look down at their feet, taking one careful step after the other in an effort to avoid stumbling into a pothole. A singular drop of rain hits my eye. A scout leading the way for the rest of the army. A deep gaze searching for an invitation to kiss.
I hurry along to the store and check the date on each piece of bread to find the freshest one. Just something I’d been taught before being promoted from errant-in-chief to errand-in-chief. I pick one that I like and bring it over to the shop owner, who recognizes me through his gold-rimmed glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose.
“Just this today?”, he asks smilingly.
“Yes, uncle!” and I place the coins on the counter. Everyone’s an uncle or an aunt in India, whether they are related to you or not. I think it comes from a time when everyone had to stick together and fight against the colonizers. He gives me back 2 one rupee coins and pushes the drawer shut, ready to greet the next patron. I contemplate getting a piece of candy for myself as commission but take an executive decision not to.
I walk back, expertly tackling the undulations of the broken sidewalk and the crowds bargaining with street vendors. I am glad I grew up in a time where we weren’t sheltered to a great degree. We could watch and learn about how different people went about their day. From the taxi drivers waiting for a fare, to the cobbler squatted away in his tiny workshop. We learnt that life is inherently a struggle for millions, and yet they still turned up at their jobs everyday as sure as the Sun rises in the east, and worked hard to make a living. We also imbibed a sprinkle of street smartness and ingenuity along the way, learning how to get things done when all plans fail. It’s a part of our DNA.
The rain is now coming down in big, fat drops. I quicken my pace, not unlike a runner who has caught a glimpse of the finish line. It has been a tradition, for as long as I could remember, to jump under the open sky with abandon and get soaked the first time the heavens open up. I run up the two flights of stairs, ring the doorbell and deposit the bread in the kitchen and turn around.
San Jose, California
I turn around and start heading home, my glasses fogging up with every breath I take. I power through with blurry vision, expertly tackling the gauntlet of discarded electric scooters and hooded skateboarders.
I open the door after fumbling with the lock, wash my hands with soap for twenty seconds, clean my glasses and begin brewing a cup of tea. I blow on it, making the wisps of steam dance around, and look outside at the overcast sky now letting go of its watery burden.
A lot has changed since the last time I got drenched in a downpour.
