It's been raining, again. The streets are wet, the last drizzle is just falling from the clouds softly and slowly, the road is already drying up in patches. Sneaky rain! to come so silently and without notice, when it knows a whole city of people is waiting eagerly for it.
Yes indeed, there are other people waiting for the rain as well, I am not imagining it. The other day, a cab driver told me, in no dissatisfied terms, how long it was raining after- weeks of heat, and then, finally, rain. He was thrilled. Excited. This, though he had to drive with the pouring rain forming a thick sheet that he had to plough his car through, the wipers working furiously to break through the white, streaming wall. On either side of the road, greenery flourished with a tropical fervour, alive and awake after days of limpness.
Years from now, will I believe that I actually lived on an island? In a house with huge windows from which I stared out at the streetlights at dawn, having slept or waiting for an insomniac's sleep; or maybe having slept enough for an entire week? Alone, closeted with my thoughts, away from meddling crowds and cities bursting at their seams, people jostling madly to a post en route to the destination. Not that people differ- cribbing, complaining, hurting, envying, sometimes allowing bursts of happiness coming through. Tracing and retracing footprints in search of something elusive. Lost in thought, blank and weary, trudging on nevertheless.