+Things to do on a rainy day
Raining is it? Have nothing to do? Is the age old cliché of sipping a steaming cup of tea or having a hot bowl of 'khichuri' with spice, as you sit watching the rain, not appealing enough to you? Well then, today's your lucky day, because we bring you five things to do in this weather that will definitely keep you amused.
Disclaimer- Injuries especially those relating to open man holes or the sudden appearance of a street sign between the legs may be expected, so it advisable to wear required protective gear.
Learn to swim or take a boat ride
Acid rain propaganda
Test your luck
Neither RS nor the writer takes responsibility for any unwanted consequences of the above actions.
“Where's my sunny sky?”
You were young when you first encountered rain. The coal black clouds that belched their thunder and their rage; your tiny heart beats at its utmost and you were scared that the sky seemed to be literally coming off at its seams. You imagined you could see the gross white interior of the heavens every time the lightning flashed and the world became resplendent in cold white light. The few flecks of the water that reached your face were somehow more than just wet.
You had someone beside you though, someone older. A mother, father or sister. Someone who told you the rain was good. The rain was cleansing. That it was beautiful. You were scared enough that you held on to them. And you wished hard that the rain wouldn't get you. That the sky wouldn't fall. When they asked you if you liked the rain you said yes. Out of fear. Out of desperate hope that it truly was so.
But it's none of those things.
You were lying to yourself then. You're lying to yourself now. You still don't like the rain. You still find it vaguely disquieting, disgusting. Deep down inside, you hate it. Go ahead. Admit it. You hate rain. Its liberating isn't it, to be finally free; to not look at the world like a romantic? Yes, it's grittier now, this cold world, but at least it's truer.
You hate how it manages to rain on you just when you get out for work. You hate how the first drop of rain that you notice falls on your glasses. You hate the way the world dislocates around that one rivulet streaming down the lenses. A crack in your world view and you hate it all.
You hate how your sweat mixes with the falling rain. You hate how the sun refuses to give up its penchant to dehydrate you. You hate how you start to feel the component threads making up your clothes as the water seeps in, rubbing against your skin.
You hate the way the ground squishes beneath your feet, seeming to give away. The mud seems to rise; the dirt coalescing in front of your eyes, like yeast. You can feel it getting beneath your toes, grinding against the soles of your feet. Your sandals are now dirty.
You are wet now, really truly wet. You have no peripheral vision and the cold has set in. Just a minute ago you were wishing for shade and now the wetness has given you an ache in your chest. You feel yourself getting ready to cough. The world is now a blur of miasmic colours, seen from behind your soaked glasses. The semblance of form is lost to you and you stumble because the potholes have found invisibility in the flowing tides that now rage on the sidewalk. The dirt smell, filled with the stink of drainage ditches exulting in freedom permeates the air. You smell it and you hate it.
When you get to work, you bring the rain with you. You drag it inside with you, in your sloshing footsteps, with your dripping clothes. You still refuse to take off your glasses. And the world is still unclear. Your hands drip onto the keyboard as you sit down to work. The air conditioning is making you colder still. Sniffles. Perfect.
You get out of work. The clouds threaten you; show you their malice in itinerant flashes of lightning. You know it's going to happen again. The disturbed dirt that floats in the air clings to your skin. You feel like mud.
You walk home and it starts drizzling. Your semi-dried clothes start to get wet again only this time it's achingly familiar. The hemlines on your pants never really dried and the car that splashes muddy ditch water on you leaves the cellphone in your pocket wet.
You get home, dripping in the elevator. You walk into the house, bringing the rain with you, dragging it in with your shivering twitches and your soaked hair sticking up in angles. You bring the rain home.
The food on the table is cold. There is no khichuri and beef-bhuna, no smoking ilish-fry. You're cold and snivelling. The rain hasn't left you. You don't taste anything. As you sit down you can hear the muffled boom of an electric transformer blowing thanks to the storm. The lights go out as you ladle some congealed curry onto your plate. Someone, someone who likes the rain has opened a window. Moths have flown in. They assault the meagre food you eat and you don't much care. They bring the rain in with them as well.
You hate the rain. There are no rainbows. And by this time, you've stopped lying to yourself.
By Tareq Adnan
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