Rain

Houses in Calcutta are built funny. They have nothing that may be called a fence, or a boundary wall or a garden. They sit fat and squat, right on the pavement and then they squeeze the lane from both sides till it swells to just about the width of a yellow ambassador. They can make one feel very unwelcome; especially when it rains really hard.

It burst around me suddenly that day, as I was on my way back from office. The rain poured down on all sides, slithered against the moss coated walls and fell in big heaps at the feet of these houses that pushed it all on the road. The uncaring water came gurgling, tumbling along in splashes as it met the water from the other side of the road in a swirl, and then the water from the other lane a little further down.

It is possible to enjoy the rain, yes. But only when one is not wearing formals he plans to repeat the next day and not carrying an expensive company laptop to be returned next morning. I ran down the street looking for shelter, people familiar with the lane had the obvious shelters reserved and packed in dripping elbow-to-rib, vegetable basket-to-briefcase camaraderie. I ran further into the dark street.

There was this house that invited me in at first glance, with a kind of cement awning over the small grotto of an entrance. I ran in and stood trying to catch my breath, as I stood bent so that the cold wet shirt hung away from my chest. I kept my things on the floor and turned to look at the rain. The rain was different now that I was out of its direct rage, and looked prettier. An odd adventurer or two ran across in sporadic sprints as people weighed probabilities of the rain stopping against the urgency of their chore. I wasn’t in a hurry. People back in my house knew that summer trainings may take time getting over and there were other younger cousins at home they’d worry about more. I took my time wringing out water from my hair with the handkerchief. The rain had not lessened.

It was an uncertain, stifled cough.

Startled, I turned around. Shit! Was there a stray animal in here? Had the owner of the house come? Was my shelter about to be taken away? I turned to find only a small girl I had not noticed before, standing in the same state as me. Relief!

It was the expression that I noticed first. She must have been around 16, a tuition bag hugged against her, a couple of loose tendrils of curly hair hung over a pair of scared eyes.

Scared is perhaps not the word. She must have been hoping I don't notice her. Now she stood all squeezed into a corner, gulping down her terror. Terrified? Of me? That is not how is usually is with people and me. I was perplexed. For a long, excruciating moment, we stood looking at each other through bated breath, confusion, cold sweat and rain. Then suddenly I figured it out. I was male. And suddenly that primordial fright, the terror, all fell into place.

Suddenly I was in her shoes. I could imagine all she must have been told about me, the unknown male on the street. One, who would take advantage of the fact that she is a woman, and young and not as strong; who would just show her she was weak, break her ego, shatter her in these little mean ways, and feel good about it. And I realised in that cramped space, there was a chasm I could not cross.

I stepped outside and walked away. The rain was different again now. Not pretty anymore. I had just paid for those of my gender she had met or heard about. I felt guilty for some vague reason. I wished I could undo some stupid generations and start all over again.

I stopped near the corner. I could still see the entrance to the house. The least I could do was ensure no other man walked into that place. I decided to wait till the rain stopped. The rain didn't stop for a long time. Guilty streams flowed around my shoes… slow and thick and brown.