The Lady and The Rain

Mumbai is a place of great diversity. Diversity; the word sounds so beautiful when you hear it. Here, however, when you see it, the word gets a new raw meaning. It has been quite a while since I've picked up the pen to write a story, and so, I ventured out so I could get a few ideas that I could work upon. I walked around, and looked around, the way I usually do, and got a few ideas to write about as well. I was happy; I thought that maybe, tonight, after a long time, I'd be able to write something, something that's similar to the lines of what I've been writing out for a while now. Three fictional tales chased each other around my head, and with those safely locked up in my brain for the future, I headed back home. The stories, however never came. The raw diversity of the city hit me hard, and I couldn't help but ensure that the story I told was just as raw as what I saw.

The lady on the sidewalk doesn't need a fabricated story. Her tale has to be as honest and brutal as the very truth that she's living. I hadn't looked into her eyes for more than a second, but in that brief moment her sadness and pain and shame touched me. I shivered, as I stopped, looking at her. It was a wet night, what with the incessant rain that had been showering the city since morning, and because of that I had no idea of knowing if her face was wet from the drops of rain, or droplets of her tears. She knew, however, and in that brief moment she looked into my eyes, she told me about it as well.

The warmth from the halogen bulb shining over her head was all the warmth she got that night. Half a moon shone above her, and the yellow light and white light mixed up together somewhere as they fell over her. In that light, the droplets falling from the skies shone like glittering diamonds, and just like jagged diamonds, the cold water from above seemed to pierce through her dark skin. The warm blanket lay soaked and cold, and she was left with nothing but a pillow squelching in the light layer of soft mud to lay her head on. The tree nearby provided a little dry spot, with the occasional fat raindrop making its way through the leaves and down to the earth. The dry spot was where she had tucked in her little son, the one small comfort for her under the cold halogen bulb. Now, there was no place for her, and the long wet night waited for her. Many feet hurried past her, some of them holding umbrellas over their heads to avoid the water from above, the very same water that would get them, one way or another. No one spared a thought or a glance for the lady in the rain, sitting there cold and wet, the shadow of her past still strong in her eyes. The water flowed on steadily past her, rising slowly but surely; the pattering feet jogged past her, and the rain fell softly overhead, and she sat there, silently waiting for the night to get over, so both her son and she could be blessed with another miracle, another day in this city of dreams, Mumbai.

Like everyone else on that road, I tried to focus on getting back home as well. I tried to shake off the thoughts of her, the memory of that look in her dark eyes, but unlike everyone else, I couldn’t do a good job of it. A good few steps later, I turned back, my eyes searching for the lady in the rain. I was some distance away from her, and I could just make out a human figure in a soaked saree sitting near a big tree. I wanted to stop, for another moment, but the jostles from the people pushed me on, and being caught up in the wave of walking men, I kept going. A little ahead, the road bent to the right, and I couldn’t see her anymore.