Rain

I’ve always been fond of rain. Maybe because the day I was born it was raining. My grandmother fought her way through a maelstrom that was a mixture of water, hail and wind. I was wrapped in a shawl and taken to the best pediatrician’s house in all of ______. As the rain lashed down, my grandmother was so preoccupied with moving through the deluge that threatened to sweep her off her feet that she didn’t stop to see whether she was holding the much awaited and highly anticipated son or the curse that a girl child is regarded in India.

Lucky for me that she didn’t because she only came to know that I was the latter when the pediatrician exclaimed that I was a really beautiful girl. Not yet a day old and I had already charmed my first guy.

Nani would always lament that she should have succumbed to the temptation and dropped me into the river that the road had turned into on her way home.

I don’t know what she was thinking but she didn’t do it. According to her she uncovered my face to take one look before she dropped me but she didn’t. She tells me that the look of pure joy that settled itself on my face as the first rain drop touched it was too much even for her to resist.

She tells me this every time I walk in out of the rain.

My skin feels alive, a shimmering being that is a part of me and yet not my own, my soul feels like its been washed with nectar, life courses through my veins.

I love the rain. I adore the smell of water mingling with the earth and turning to fluid. I love the feeling of raindrops on my skin and the touch of cool wind in my hair. Whenever I see people running away and taking shelter I want to tell them to stop, to find a puddle to splash in because you never know when you might find joy again. Pure unadulterated joy. The kind of joy that makes you see emeralds in the light of day as the rain shimmers on the leaves, it makes you see rubies on the flowers that sway on the boughs of the china rose tree and turns the violets into amethysts.

Rain in the nightfall brings peace. The kind of peace that you can only dream about. The kind of peace that is accompanied by the rhythm of the raindrops, the sound reassuring and comforting telling you that you are alone but not.

I’m sitting with my cup of warm tea watching the smoke curling up from the surface of the liquid a brief bit of warmth that is whisked away with every breath of cool wind that comes by. My minds eye sees eternal love, dancing , laughing briefly in the face of time before being swept away by the powers that be.

I can see the bark of the trees glowing like molten copper, reddish brown.

Nani waits for me, she expects me to thank her. For the tea, for her love and for the gift of life that she gave all those years ago.

I’ll do it again, like I always do, and I’ll lie to her like I always do that I love her the best. I don’t .I love the rain more.

I owe it to myself

The day is dying. The sun has already begun its ritual of descent leaving the sky a gash of red like a freshly acquired wound hell bent on bleeding until death comes as the end. The light breeze blowing across the visage the only reminder that it had rained heavily a few hours ago.

He thinks back to the day he first saw her. Running as fast as his heavy build would allow; he had been arrested by the sight of a lovely green chiffon scarf blowing in the wind. He remembers coming to a standstill. Etched firmly into his mind is a vision of a lovely girl in traditional Indian dress, her hands clasping the handle of a black bag, the wind playing hide and seek through her long black hair that she didn’t bother to push away or tame.

She was focused solely on the arrival of the bus that she seemed to be eagerly waiting for. The august sun beat mercilessly down and in that life time that passed between halt and movement the sun forced her cheeks to yield a lush red blush that gradually crept up her face to reach her already pink ears.

From that day on the colors of the sunset had always reminded him of that single moment; that one heart stopping moment in time when the color rose unchecked like a thief across her face and at the same time had crept unbidden in to his heart.

That day he had dismissed her. Another brush with lust he told himself. You’re letting your hormones rage within you like a little kid. What’s wrong with you? You’re an adult for god’s sake.

Then the next bus came by and his thoughts were swept away with the mundane details of life that demanded his immediate attention – the bus, the conductor, loose change and fellow travelers jostling their way to a relatively comfortable position.

The next time he saw her she was walking down the corridor of the Institute. Tired gait, eyes haggard, her entire face flushed with the exertion that comes on the heels of mental labor and an exhaustion that signaled fatigue.

He’d forgotten about her by then. And here she was bringing with her the scent of wisdom and innocence all at once. He never knew what impulse drove him to ask her if she needed help. He’d already decided by then that he wasn’t going to be used in any way by anyone. But somehow he knew that she was going to be different. Maybe she felt the same but she didn’t show it but she did accept his offer.

Time didn’t wait for either of them. It kept moving onwards but he remained in a place inhabited by her intelligence, her values, her words and her admonitions. She became a constant reminder of what could be, a possibility that could make life much more bearable and perhaps even enjoyable.

Life’s little pleasures acquired a taste that was unique, tinged as it was with the essence of love. A shared cup of coffee, a sandwich eaten on the run, a conversation late into the night, they all took on the rose colored hues that love brings in its first flush.

But that was how he’d seen it; it was his perception of how life was going on. His heart that had always been a bit of stone melted like wax. People, places, sights, sounds. Everything became mesmerizing; every object was a sign of things that were yet to come.

Winter rolled around bringing with it an occasion to be celebrated. Birthdays are always a very safe way of expressing things. Certain emotions can be cloaked in the hues of other neutral feelings. Yet they can be felt by people as surely as if they had been spoken aloud.

A small but perfect gift, beautifully wrapped. A little doll and a set of bangles. Selected with care and hand delivered well in advance. The next day the bangles dancing with every movement of her hand making music that perhaps only he could understand.

He took it as a sign, another in a long line of signs. Foolishly he dreamed of the day when he would be able to get her better ones, precious ones that would have a value that would be evident in the sparkle of the precious metal that would be used to craft them.

Every gesture that she made and every word that she spoke seemed to be an affirmation of perfection. Every emotion that love brings flooded into him and drained away into oblivion. Jealousy, sadness, longing, melancholy, anxiety, indecision and an aching soul. The seven plagues of the bible are pale in comparison to those that rack your soul when you are in love.

Love in all its multicolored hues, sweet as sugar candy and more bitter than bile, came and settled its lovely wings over him. He was in love that was for sure but was she? That is something that he forgot to ask and perhaps that was his biggest mistake.

He began to walk through paths that were strewn with the softness of flower petals. The winter air that hit you in the lungs with the full force of a sharp knife was now a bouquet of fragrances that brought pleasant memories with it.

A mixture of air tempered by the cold, the fragrance of wood smoke, the sharpness of tobacco mingled with freshly brewed coffee. Small bits of joy that had been dormant in his mind came to the fore in full force to remind him that life is, indeed, beautiful. His life, so far a struggle, now seemed to have been a quest for that one perfect person that he had succeeded in finding.

Then came the day when life decided that enough is enough. Things had gone too far. Things began to unravel. It all began with a prank and ironically his best friend was the perpetrator. She’s getting engaged!

The sun fell out of the sky. How could she do this to me? Hurt, sorrow, tears and recriminations. It could not end like this. Maybe you should tell her how you feel. A snake was whispering in his ear. His own desire was edging him on. He tells her and then the world does really end.

I don’t love you, not in that sense. Simple words but to him they are incomprehensible. The sky loses its silvery sheen and becomes the dull leaden grey of a wintry day. The entire world becomes strange and forbidding.

He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep. Is this what it feels like to have your heart broken? He couldn’t fathom what he had done to deserve this. What have I done wrong? He wanted to scream, to shout, and to cry but all he could do was carry on living.

He went back to the institute. She was waiting for him. I still want to be friends. Easy words, easy to say, difficult to keep up for the sake of appearances. I don’t want to be just friends; I want to marry you for god’s sake!

Life became unbearable for a while, looking at each other and saying the same banal contrite things that people say to each other when they want to get away from the heaviness that silence brings. Two people trapped in a prison of words that convey nothing except the sheer futility of a life that is being forced to exist as a whole. Words forced out of the fragments of a heart that could once feel and still bled because it had nothing else to do.

He puts the fragments of his heart away in a corner of his soul. He puts his mind to work and his body into a tortuous routine that few understood and no one approved of. His life fast becomes a miasma incapable of being untangled.

He begins to nurture a dream that the day he becomes capable enough, she will change her mind. He continues to see her as the one. She maintains her distance. They carry on dancing to an age old tune, desire and despair merging in a brief coupling like smoke meeting air before vanishing.

They say Time heals all wounds but the scars remain. Maybe the scars are there as proof that you are a stronger and wiser person. Who knows what life has in store for you?

He kept on working and he kept on waiting. Things became easier, the pain passed away and the sharpness that had accompanied him since that fateful day loosened its hold.

Gradually life came back into his work and his movements. His heart renewed by hope he carried on. Maybe he would have carried on but then life was not going to be kind. It had already been too kind to him.

The Monsoon arrived with a fury that was unprecedented. Lashing through the air the rain drops beat down on him as he made his way to the Institute. The rain that had always signaled unparalleled sadness didn’t give him any clues as to what was in store.

She was in the library struggling with the financial news. For no apparent reason he decided to ask her the question that had been worming its way through his mind for quite some time now. Have you ever been in love? Yes. Silence. And would you marry him? Yes. Why? Because he’s always been the one I’ve felt comfortable talking to and its always going to be him.

The rain was a blessing. No one saw him cry. And when the sun finally came out he thought about every thing that had happened. He felt saddened, as if a great weight had been placed on his shoulders. Is there any point in living?

Then some thing snapped. It was as if a tightly coiled spring had given away. I owe it to myself he thought. There’s no one who’s more important to me than myself. If I create a need only then does that need exist. I owe it to myself to succeed and no one else.

He got up and walked out into the dying embers of the day ready to begin anew. I owe it to myself he kept repeating over and over again. A talisman that would keep hurt at bay.

Life, for once, was utterly and completely taken aback.

Make a Wish

My mother always told me that if wishes were horses then beggars would ride. I never knew what exactly that particular phrase meant. I really never knew what people were saying or what they wanted to say. They would keep telling me all those typical conventional things like, “Dreams are a fool’s paradise, Keep your nose to the grindstone, work is worship, etc , etc.”

I’d keep my eyes down and listen attentively nodding along and looking for all the world like the most obedient child in the entire world. But somewhere deep down I’d keep my dreams alive, nothing could stop me from wishing, nothing that a person said would ever make a difference to my beliefs because I’d never stop believing.

I’d search for shooting stars lying flat on my back in the dead of the night. I’d wait with the innocent cruelty of a child’s heart for a beautiful and vibrant bit of heaven to break so that my wishes could come true. Ironic yet true. I sometimes feel guilty but at that point of time I felt that my dreams were more important. I like to think that because I never violated any law of nature that my dreams came true. For centuries the foundations of every new civilization has been based on the destruction of the previous one. And my wishes were the new civilization that I would build with the aid of my wishes on the ruins of stars.

Maybe because what I wanted seldom disturbed the order of the world that I was able to find enough shooting stars to carry my heartfelt desires on their tails to where god in his ever eulogized benevolence waited for them to decide their fate.

I visualized god as a round little man, a direct paradox of his omnipotent and omnipresent tangibility. I’d think of him plucking out wishes from the tails of shooting stars, dipping his hand into the golden liquid that trails along behind the star and fishing out a string of words. He would then sit at his well worn wooden table and feed that almost unending string of words into his universal translator where he would then read the output. The translator would not convert the words into a language but into a stream of colored emotion that only god would be able to understand.

The streams of color would depend upon the purity of the person’s emotions. I always believed that my stream would come out white, the color of purity, the color of diamonds and wedding gowns and unadulterated laughter. It would be the color of the clouds and the color of lightning, blinding white, intense.

I don’t know if my childish fantasies were true but I do know that my wishes came true. My wishes were very simple.

I wished for answers. I had hundreds of questions and no one to answer them. I was the youngest of seven children, the only girl in a menagerie of boys. All my brothers were mischievous without remorse. They were the bane of the neighborhood and the pride of my father. I was the exception, the quiet one.

I remember my mother telling me that I didn’t utter a word until I was three years old, and then when I started speaking, the first thing that I said was, ”Ma, Why is the sky blue?”

My mother was so shocked that she fell silent, my father would say later that those were the most peaceful five minutes of his entire married life.

Soon, I relapsed into silence. No one could tell me what I wanted to know. I asked my eldest brother and he just looked at me like I was speaking Greek. I asked my father and he just brushed me away. One of my brothers told me that I would get the answers if I wished on a star, I took his words to heart and every night long after everyone had gone to bed, I’d lie awake at night and stare at the sky looking for my wish bearers. It was probably a good thing that we were a typical rural Indian family and we slept out of doors. Otherwise I would have had to sneak out in the dead of the night. An idea that did not have a lot of appeal.

I’d been wishing for a long time, but I never gave up hope. I believed that like the Indian postal service that my parents were so fond of cursing; probably god too would ultimately make my wish come true.

One day as I went about my daily chores, I was after all the daughter of a farmer in rural India, my father came into called my mother and told her that my Grandmother was coming for a visit. My mother was not amused. My Grandmother was a formidable character, not to be messed with.

The next day my grandmother arrived. Blame it on the Indian postal service if you want but arrive she did and what an entrance. It was like walking into a dark room, fear and excitement, Warmth and arrogance, water and fire, they all came together and left you breathless. My mother once described it like being an ice burn, cold enough to freeze you yet leaving you burnt.

Yet I never felt any of it, perhaps because she never let me feel it. She took a shine to me immediately. Another paradox that god is so fond of peppering my life with. She took one look at me ordered me imperiously to help her walk to her room. Once she had settled down, she asked me what I wanted to know. It was my turn to be flabbergasted. How did she know? She just smiled kindly and asked again,” What do you want to know?”

What did want to know? What did I not want to know? Why was the sky blue and the grass green? Where did the sun go at night? What did the songs of the birds mean?

I asked and I asked not waiting to hear the answers, she let years of silence wear down before she answered. She told me that I would have to wait a little while. Can you imagine my disappointment? Here I had just poured out heart’s deepest desire and she was telling me to wait? But I had to and I did.

In fact, I’m glad I did because she sent me to school. I was probably the brightest pupil around but she never let it go to my head. She’d wait for me to come home and make me tell her everything that I had learnt. I’m sure she enjoyed every bit of it almost as much as I did.

I’m glad I believed, I’m glad I made wishes and I’m thankful that they came true. My wishes are still coming true. Today I’ve become the first woman from my village to be selected in the IAS.

My grandmother is no more but then wishes don’t last forever. That’s why you have to keep making new ones.

Make a wish , it might just come true.

The Graveyard

The sky was overcast promising rain. Maybe the newspapers would finally stop screaming out headlines stating the lack of water. As the old woman made her way towards the creaking iron gate she stopped briefly to look at the clouds gathering on the horizon.

The silvery grey of the rain bearers made the woman think of just such a day that now existed in a dimension of time no longer tangible. Life had moved on sweeping her with it into the future which, now called the present. Sighing, the woman walked on. Her monthly visit reduced to a yearly pilgrimage..

Anyone would have been able to see that she had been beautiful. Her demeanor and bearing not losing any of its character, her face as finely chiseled as ever was still serene. No trace of life’s cruelties was visible. Her Body was giving way but like the stately manor house that rots on the inside but retains its façade she remained ever beautiful.

Her tired limbs screamed in silent protest but with the grim determination of a mountain climber she moved slowly forward. She leaned on the gate trying to catch her breath and felt once again as she always did the presence of strong hands about her, holding her up and a voice telling her that she would be okay. Was it stronger today? Could she actually feel that familiar warmth again? Or was it her mind; enfeebled by old age and befuddled by her own merging of time? She couldn’t tell. Did it matter?

She pushed open the gate, the creaking loud enough to remind her of her own bones slowly grinding to dust. “Osteoporosis, Mrs. B. I’m sorry.” That’s what her doctor had told her. Did she believe he was sorry? Not for a moment. They probably felt that she had led a full life and she would be better off dead. She herself felt the same way. ?Though not as strongly as before.

It’s a sad state when your convictions crumble in the face of the march of time. Time makes all your good decisions seem bad and all of life’s lucky breaks appear as traps that it set to ensnare you in its claws. Life can be kind sometimes but the reality remains that it always takes away more than it gives.

When you have good times you tuck them away so that you would be able to remember them when you grow old. Like a long forgotten ticket stub that you find in the pocket of an old coat, your mind squirrels away bits and pieces that maybe some day you would find glittering in the darkest corner when you least expect to find them but then time takes away your memory and you lose the very possession that is supposed to aid you through you old age. The irony of it all.

Perhaps death is the greatest kindness that time bestows on us. Whisking us away to a place where memories have no meaning and the pain of parting can’t be felt.

Life had not been kind to her, always taking away and tantalizing her with things that always seemed just within reach but slipped out; brushing past her fingertips. It had been very cruel indeed.

For her, there had been no reprieve. She had never forgotten and so there was no remembrance and no question of loss.

She reached the grave and sank down beside it; here she could feel the presence even more strongly, enveloping her in its warmth. She felt curiously alive .She looked about her and her mind brought into sharp focus the rows of headstones, the leaves strewn all over the path, the mundane everyday dress and sensible shoes that she had on. Then slowly everything dissolved the grey of the sky, the brown of her boots, and the dirtied marble of the headstones. In their place, a rainbow of color settled itself over every object. A cornflower blue sky, a simple yet expensive yellow chiffon dress, slender black shoes on her feet and diamonds on her fingers, everything acquired a multihued vibrancy. She looked at the grave, the lettering clearly visible now. The epitaph: a tribute to her distinguished father. He had been dead for a year.

She looked at her watch, a delicate gold and diamond affair that sparkled in the sunlight. She was waiting for D to turn up, he had promised to be here at 10 and it was already 11:30. She waited for another half hour before her heart accepted what her head already knew, he wouldn’t come.

Slowly she got to her feet and began to walk towards the gate.

He had been watching her for the last hour. He often came to enjoy the macabre solitude of the place. As the day dipped and swirled around them he looked at her face devoid of emotion and set in that face a pair of the most expressive eyes that he had ever seen. He knew without being bothered about the whys and wherefores that she was waiting for someone. He knew instinctively that whoever it was would not come. Beauty, the likes of hers, would always go unrequited. It was the law of nature; nothing would be allowed to violate it.

When she finally got up to leave, he got up too. Acting without thought he followed and finally when her composure broke, he was there to catch her before she fell at the gate.

She could still feel the touch of his fingertips and the sound of his soft, unassuming voice telling her that it would be alright. She could still feel the strength that flowed from him, giving her hope and a new will to live.

One day she would wait for him too and as always, life would let her down. She would wait but the only thing that would come would be the intimate knowledge of his death. He might still be alive, they said. She knew better. Nature would not allow her rules to be violated.

Slowly the colors shifted, darkening with a sinister tinge. She was as before waiting at the graveside. He had told her that he would come. She had waited with anticipation, with trepidation slowly mounting until it turned to anxiety. She carried a new life within her, a promise of hope and new beginnings. Maybe now life would give her a reprieve. But it was not to be.

This time there was no one to hold her up; no strong arms around her and her dreams came to an end at the gate in a pool of blood. She survived. Life was not going to give up so easily.

The colors began to dissolve and blur, the sky became grey again and the years rolled to a stop back in the present through a veil of tears she looked down but what was this? Her hands still carried her beloved diamonds, she turned and the sky was a bright blue, she could see the gate, it was still freshly painted! What was happening?

She shook her head and once lush brown hair fell about her shoulders, a river of molten chocolate that fell in a straight cascade. In the distance a shape came slowly into focus. It came nearer and her breath caught in her throat, did she dare call out? What if he disappeared again?

This time she didn’t rise. He came up to her and knelt down, “I’m sorry I took so long.”

A pair of young lovers found her. They had run into the graveyard to shelter under the tree that stood near the gate. She lay with her head resting against the headstone, her face a study of contentment that even the rain could not wipe away.