And Then the Rain Fell

I hadn't realized until that point just how long it had been since I'd last had dinner with my family. Most days, I'd be working till midnight, only to return home to a cold dinner waiting for me in the microwave. A warm dinner wasn't bad. Food apparently tastes better warm. Wow, just how many years has it been? Routines are dangerous things. You never know when you're drowned too deep into them.

My dad sits crouched. Strange. What happened to that flamboyant army officer who had only recently retired? It was recent right? Just how many years? Five years? Six?  I can't really remember. We're having korola bhaji today. There was a time when father would go out of his way to give me a lecture on the medicinal qualities of korola. He would tell me the bitterness was for my own good. I guess those times are long gone. I don't need somebody to tell me what I should eat. And I suppose he doesn't have the energy left to probe me either. Time is a funny thing.

My mother and grandmother don't seem to fancy each other very much. Old story. My grandmother is a misshapen character. She keeps spilling gravy on my mother's precious tablecloth. My mother just sighs. The two of them seem like seasoned opponents. They won't say much unless they have to, unless they desperately have to yield to nature's unforgiving circumstances like when the salt is too far away.

 I felt like the misfit. It was a bit difficult to guess my role in the dinner table. I wasn't the rowdy teenager with rockstar dreams and an unreasonably loud guitar amp playing at 3 in the morning. Nor was I the clumsy little pre-pubescent kid with the allergies and the extra tooth. I was an adult, a failed one that's floating in between things. Everyone at the dinner table has a pretty solid understanding of their lives and what the future holds. We just chew our food in denial. May be something out of the ordinary will happen one of these days.

The verandah is a common sanctuary whenever the power fails. If you are lucky, a breeze would blow and wipe some of the sweat off of your forehead. I have sort of made it my domain. A place none of the others in the house venture into unless they get drawn into having a conversation. We don't do that a lot anymore. My dad comes in smoking a cigarette. I am not sure if he knew I'd be here. He had a rule against smoking in front of me but I guess that's in the past

“Do you want one?” he asks looking at the clouds gathering overhead. Way to put a nail in my childhood's coffin, dad. I take one without saying anything. The clouds roar a bit more. “Looks like it'll rain,” I tell him as I inhale. “Wait let me get your mother.” Was that excitement? It was.

I could hear dad pushing mom to come. This was the time of the day when mother locked herself in front of the TV but she as there was no power she agreed. I had heard a story about my parents first meeting on a rainy day but that was probably before World World II so what the heck, right? But I guess memories are important. They're sort of like a testament to better things that happened. And maybe that implied better things would happen again?  I mean, rain did purify this toxic city even if for a brief second. That period of improvement was worth something.

And as the rain fell, we had something strange for the first time in what seems like decades. A family moment. Melting walls is that easy? Wow. My mother tells me not poke my head out too far lest I get a cold. My father tries to sing an old Kishore Kumar song in a cracked voice. After a lot of nudging my mother starts singing herself. How long has it been since my one time radio artist mother sang with her heart? Time really is something.