Rain. That’s all there is to anything anymore. The browbeaten cliché of grey pervading everything when hit by the blues is rather unnecessarily deserving of that title. If only the end was for once ignored long enough to spare a glance for its gloomier creator, the destroyer of most things-the rain- which hides behind the stifingly beautiful painting of romantic getaways and childhood nostalgia, all the while killing: slowly, but never softly.
Now, please don’t give me that “rain is a cathartic washing away of all that has been, leaving you clean and new and pure and hopeful” kind of bullshit. Save it for the times you want to seem like a profound thinker on your Facebook timeline, because let’s face it, the millions of friends you’ve never met but “luv” on there only need that one status update to feel privileged that they have been privy to the everyday inanities of the next Rumi. Save it for the times you want to seem like a person of substance to the third guy you met at the fourth party you’d been to that weekend, and truly, you just couldn’t bear another night alone while your friends painted the town red. And undoubtedly, all that random men at parties, consuming the free beer and the freer show of skin, look for in a casual hook up these days is a screensaver with a starry background and a skin-deep quote.
But don’t you dare give that to me.My life has been rain and rain couldn’t quite have found someone better to pelt down on. Kick a man when he’s already down, is that the phrase? While you pull your coat tighter and your ‘honey’ for the month holds the designer umbrella over your head even as you walk covered pavements in the big city, looking for the next store-do forgive me, ‘showroom’- to ransack; I’m here in my old, faded black jeans that I absolutely refuse to throw away, which has its own defiance to throw at me by remaining wet. For the entire week and then the next. Do you know why?
Because the rain here; it’s not picture-perfect trickles down your nose while you gleefully jump up and down and run back and forth while your mother waits on the driveway with a hot cup of coffee. Nor is it the sweet simmering hot chocolate on your tongue and curling up to your battered copy of Pride and Prejudice, that classic, classic crowned king of all clichés.
The rain here is not even unabating, as you may surmise from my incessant railing. It’s jerky, abrupt, shakingly-powerful and the sun can only hope to be the Robin to its Batman, only on the days it seems content to hold the water in and let the large looming clouds take centre stage.
It’s wet, to put it plainly.
Here, the rain does not deliver you from your sins or bring a fresh breath of air into your life, or even make your new shoes seem shinier. Here, it only accumulates.
On the street, in the corridors, in my room, in the straps of my backpack and the sleeves of my round-neck, it clings.
And boy does it make me feel like a pathetic loser for no goddamn reason at all.
But don’t think it was bleak from the very beggining. Surprised as you might be to hear it, I did try: put on my rubber slippers, rolled up my pants or just wore shorter ones, strapped on my bag to my front and pulled it to my chest with one hand while clutching onto my feeble umbrella with the other for two whole days, before it snapped- quite out of its depth against those tempestuous wiles. It took a day and then a few more than a few more, for it to weather me down, literally. As I stepped out in the comfortable company of my now-dull black jeans and holey sneakers with the stitches unraveling at the toes, I didn’t try to squeeze the disgusting dampness out from the wedges of my socks stuck between my toes or drag the denim upto my thighs or even lift my legs a little higher. I waded. And waited, wondering how it had come to this. But then again, perhaps my life has always had a fucked-up drainage system.
I’m sorry if you were looking for meaning in my constant indistinctness. The blur was my only way of breathing without choking on the relentless downpour. But I’ll have you know you’ll get what I was perhaps trying to say through this long drawn out monologue which you perhaps shouldn’t have bothered with, later. Much, much later.
When the crimsoned coat of your nails begins to crumble and the precise black strokes have turned to sporadic smudges across the ridges on your cheeks; when you can’t see that dark bruise on your knee anymore because it is covered by the darker, and your Zara pullover has holes at the stitches under your arms, but you really couldn’t find inside of you the urge to care anymore; or maybe you didn’t even notice them, that’s how far gone you were, because somehow the subtle sweetness of the coffee has touched your tongue at the exact same time as the half-gone cigarette finally hits your head and Michael English has just hit the high notes on “Mary, Did You Know”; then maybe you remember me and my ramblings, and it took you so long, but you get it, you do. Oh, but it’s too late now because you can already feel the first, the second and then all those tiny droplets of water soaking into your skin.