Rainy Day
It is eight o clock in the evening. I am walking out of my house. I climb two stories down and step in between the gates of my building. I open my umbrella. It is raining. A pond of water has collected just in front of my house. I step into it. It is a good feeling. The water is cool. Rain drops fall on my umbrella. I like the sound. As the the drops fall on the ground, they shine under the road lights momentarily. Then they disappear. Some drops fall on the ponds formed here and there. They disperse fresh small waves. I am enjoying the rain. I have dropped my disgust of getting wet. It seems less relevant today. And as I walk, enjoy the sound of rain everywhere. On the trees, on the grass and sometimes on my feet.
I am thinking about a girl. I like thinking of her. I like the idea of falling in love with her. She is very lovely. Very lovable. I remember her thin face. I think of her and my heartbreaks come chasing. But somehow, in her thoughts the heart ache seems less painful. She is making me fall in love with her toady. In some small way, I am falling in love all over again. I am smiling.
I reach the pan shop. “Maza aagaya baarish mein, Salim bhai.” I say. “Haan sir. Bahut bhaari baarish ho rahi hai” says he.
He opens a pack of cigarettes and forwards one to me. I light it and ask for a coffee. He makes it and gives it to me. I sit on rather tall stool. The shop is on one corner a cross road. There a graveyard on the opposite side. To the right side of the graveyard is a school and in front of that a few small shops of second hand metal. But they are all closed now. So the cross road is quite deserted. I sit facing the crossroad, the shop on my right side. My right hand rests on the shop counter as I place my cup over it in between my sips. I smoke with my left hand. I relax into the stool. I enjoy being alone in the place very alone. Secluded.
And then in a moment, I feel quiet. I feel alive. There is clarity in this feeling. At that moment I don’t regret anything. I am conscious of my feelings. But it does not disturb me. I sip my coffee, I smoke my cigarette. I am alone, quiet and happy.
“Iftaar hogaya?” I ask Salim bhai. “Haan sir” he says. And silence follows. Silence.
“Kuch awaazein aa rahi hain” Salim bahi says, as if only to break the silence. “Hmm…..” I dont pay much attention. But I am curious. I start listening. What sounds? I wonder. “Aurat ki aawaazein aa rahi hain” he says again. “Kahan se?”
He doesn’t reply. And then I hear it. The first time I hear it, I know it is a woman. That is all I now. Second time I hear it, it is completely different. It is full of pain, that voice. It is terrorized. It is a scream of a woman in intense pain and agony. The helplessness in the voice has given it a certain quality. A quality that inspires fear.
“Haan. Aaa rahi hai . Kahan se?” I ask. “School se aa rahi hongi. Zhagada hota raheta hai wahan” he says. “Kaun reheta hai waan?” “School ke owner rehete hai” And there is another scream. Louder and more helpless than the others before. “Maar raha hoga” he says.
I want to mention to him, what kind of education could a merciless fool like that give to the children. But I keep quiet. I walk away. When I walk back, I can still hear the screams of that woman. Inside my head. I hear them over and over again. The hatred in the world has come face to face to me. Hatred not for armed men. But hatred of a man for his own wife.