Once upon a rainy evening

What's worse than a writer's block? Something even more frustrating than the lack of anything to write about? Its when you have three ideas in your head fighting for space and trying to break the queue in the hope it'll be the first one to be inked whenever you decide to break free from the shackles of plain lethargy.  What makes the vicious circle complete is when you decide to let time figure out which one gets to be the lucky bastard, or rather the first one to be crucified under the nib of a rusty writer's pen who's more incoherent than a drunkard on one of his more sloshed out days!  Well, here I am, probably writing more out of desperation than inspiration to derail the monotone that has become life, choosing this topic for the simple correlation with a vain fight to buy a decent umbrella all day today.

I scampered, more like a scared rat than one ready to devour a lump of cheese, for the yellow and black Premier Padmini, newspaper over my head, trying hard to make the best use of the unread Economic Times I have been dragging along all day long.  "Bandra", I yelled into the millimeter crack that the driver rolled the window down by.  Two seconds he pondered, before rolling it up again and driving away as I stood there, still stooped, astounded at his sheer disregard for helping someone out in this heavy rain.  Twenty minutes and five failed attempts later, one dingy croaking Padmini screeched to a halt.


Kidhar saab?
Bandra. Lalbaug se nikal lena.

Before he could make up his mind, I had slid in, newspaper first, into the backseat.  I could not tell what was more nauseating, the wet newspaper lying next to me in tatters or the damp seat which had definitely nursed a wet dripping ass to warmth not too long ago.  He jerked the joystick into gear and sped off, well whatever notion of "sped off" you can associate with a Padmini.  For the uninitiated, let me place Mumbai rains in context.  When it rains, all hell breaks loose, roads become endless lengths of cars waiting for their ration of "forward movement", the city transforms into a puddle of water, going back to its true roots as an archipelago.   And we, sit tight, in black and yellow crawlers, waiting, for our glimpse of a clearing.  This evening was no different.

Seated in a Mumbai cab, you can almost always tell who had been there before you.  The perfume of an up-class middle aged housewife on her way to NCPA might linger.  The scrunched up covers of the seat would suggest of a family on vacation in Mumbai with a small kid unable to curb his enthusiasm, standing up on the seat peering out the back watching the city's madness pass by behind him.  Only one half of the floor mats covered in mud would tell a different story, of a couple embracing each other, sharing warmth, celebrating their togetherness.  A depression in the middle and slight mud on either side of the divide in the car's floor relates the anxiety of a young banker, bent forward, peering into the windshield, trying to map in his head the time to arrival, fidgeting with his watch, as if it would give him the ability to slow down time and reach in time.  Stench of booze would boast of a reunion of old friends meeting up after ages, cheering each other's lives on, happy for each other and making merry of whatever little time they have to spend reminiscing the past.

As the rain started to pour even  more dramatically, I rolled the window up completely.  Beads of water fell and rolled down the glass.  A mist formed on the inside.  Dragging my finger making doodles on the window I could see other cabs, their windows rolled up as well.  All of us trapped inside our own little prison.  Headlights, taillights, streetlights, all making silhouettes of small yellow black monsters devouring every inch of open space visible on the road.  Through the half-misty window I reckon I saw a familiar face, someone I had known a long time back.  Another cab passed by, and I believe I saw her, the girl who once used to make me laugh.  I thought I saw him, he who once was me.  I peered closer into the window, squinting, only to see my own reflection; the remnants of what used to be "me".  Shocked as I was, the reflection was equally surprised to see what had become of me.

I snapped out of the brief trance I had gone into as the driver honked on the horn as hard as he could, rolling down his window, yelling out expletives at the top of his voice, gesturing an old man to move out of his path and take his troubles elsewhere.  The man looked back at the cab, frowned and then smiled, before ambling over to the other side of the road.

I sat up straight, wiped my specs clean, rolled down the window, and let the slight drizzle wet my face again as I looked up into the sky.  I was home.