Precipitation

When does this city ever stop?

Granted, there are occasions when the general raucous bustling characteristic of this city dwindles to a mere murmur, but these are reserved for certain marked durations. Noontime of the Agni Natchathiram, perhaps, or Lloyds Road at two in the A.M. – these are hours of a distinct absence of any notable activity.

For the more hardcore Madras dwellers, however, the heat is no obstacle to the periodic duties of ingrained routine. Fourteen year-olds reserve their region of the Corporation ground at three and the wizened Mamis march on to Mylapore for their daily pilgrimage like clockwork, paying no heed to the scorching sun.

A broad generalisation would be the claim that, by and large, the weather bears no effect on the lives of this city’s inhabitants.

That generalisation is about as broad as it is wrong.

As I write this, I stand on the balcony of my home, fortunately situated two levels above the ground, and one and a half levels above the water, casting a disdainful eye upon the world that lies, in stark contrast to the bone-dry look it sported merely three days ago, submerged in a distasteful concoction of rainwater and sludge. As a form of seasoning, perhaps, lies the garnishing provided by an eclectic assortment of items – a twig, a leaf, the odd plastic bag, an unfinished bottle of 7Up. Four slippers, each without its partner, wander aimlessly on the surface of the mix. All four of them are left footed.

Four travellers in this rain have naked left feet.

A deluge of a kind this habitually parched city has never experienced, let alone imagined, has rendered it bruised, battered, nearly broken, gasping for a breath of air and praying for relief.

My gaze wanders about the area on display from my vantage point and gently rests on an unusual spot. A man doggedly manoeuvres a makeshift raft along the waterlogged road, making his way from the train station to the bus stop. Hopefully, he is heading home. Hopefully, he will make it. Not all of us are fortunate.

At least now there is a dim glimpse of cloud-filtered sunlight. Soon it will be dark – a pitch black darkness the like of which returns us to a more natural, more primitive time and place. The state of the city due to the rain resembles the condition of people in the relative comfort of their homes – powerless.

The rain is letting up, the sun is slowly sinking. A night is about to fall. The dawn may bring more rains and suffering, or it may bring relief. Looking at the ripples caused by the raindrops on the twenty-four inch deep pool of stagnant water, it is impossible to deny that there is a powerful, supreme beauty to it all. Fortunate I am indeed to observe beauty where countless others find only destruction, grief and loss.

This city has been clamouring for water for ages. Its prayers have been answered. Too bad it isn’t equipped to handle its gift.

A crow steals across the night sky, probably perturbed by the rain, but resilient nonetheless. It is armed by the quintessential Madras spirit, strengthening it, enabling it to weather the weather.

The rain has stopped for the nonce. The bird soars.