all because of the rain

Pitter-patter raindrops scatter, she loved the sound of rain on the roof and he did not. In fact, he loathed it. When the rain rattled the attap roof, she would smile and sigh, taking it in accepting the fact that rattling raindrops on roofs were a fact of life. A good one. She loved the rain, how it would cast a sort of cool damp darkness around and draw her in to another world, a world she could snuggle into and relax. And as the pitter patter tapped the attap roof with its rattling her brain would jig and jog and she, she would begin filling up that white canvas with colours and images from a different world.

The sound of rain triggered a different sort of physiological experience for him. Of course the initial pattering would be bearable, before it would overpower the sound of the television or the radio he would usually be intently focused on. He would turn the devices up to drown out the rattling rain but his ears would only hear the tapping of the raindrops on the roof. Soon the volume of the television would be at its maximum and the tapping would begin to reverberate in the space between his two ears, numbing his brain to anything else but the tapping sound. His body would begin to twitch to the throbbing tap tap, tap tap, tap tap, as his muscles tense up to resist the constant beat of the rain.

And as the rain rapped and tapped the attap roof, she would start to sing and dance to its beat.

The friction between the muscles and the rain would heat his blood up to boiling. As hot blood flowed through that tense body of his to the beat of the throbbing tapping of the rattling rain his whole self soon becomes aware of nothing else but the sound of the rain upon the roof and his heart would begin to beat to that same beat and his temples, would throb to the beat of the rain on the roof as hot blood rushes to his head. And then he would hear the sound of the rain again and again, tap tap, tap tap, tap tap.

And as the rain rapped and tapped the attap roof, she would fill up that canvas with magical things, and many-a-things others would only dream of.

When they first met he was deaf to the rain. He was too enchanted by her beauty. She possessed that sort of beauty that had a middle that was bottomless. He was first captivated by her golden brown skin, and then her silhouette under her long flowing dresses. And then he was drawn in by that curly hair that like her, had such character, and a sort of craziness, and her smile. Her eyes would speak in more languages than one, straight to the soul, and she had a sort of fluidity about her. She flowed through the world, rather than around it.

He used to love to watch her paint, to watch her fluid self dive deep into this other world she sees. He would be transfixed upon her every movement, as she turns imagination into reality as she placed brush to canvas. And when she was done, they would go for a walk in the park, towards the hills, or on the sandy beach. There was something about her, and he would stand in awe watching her collapse into the arms of a sea-breeze, which would always seem to ever so gently carry her and lay her down on the sand. And as he lay down beside her he would always feel his skin rather than the warm sand, always. But she, her skin was no barrier, she and the ground she lay upon was one. They would then walk back to the little wooden house with the attap roof where they would blissfully lie, and fall asleep in one another's arms. And he would vow to protect her, always, and to always make her smile.

And then, as months go by, he heard the rain for the first time. It was just that morning he refused to have the oats porridge he had been having for breakfast everyday since he moved there. He longed for the greasy big breakfast he always had before they met. It was just that morning, when he longed for the fry-up, and criticised her breakfast for the first time he saw that her left eye was a little smaller than her right, and her nose was a little crooked. So he made his own little fry-up, and ate without her.

And then it began to drizzle, and he wanted to watch television, she wanted to paint. She did not want the noise, so he carted the television into the bedroom and shut the door, and she went about painting. And it started to rain. Then it poured. And it poured down loudly. The glass that sheltered him from the sound of the rain suddenly shattered, and he heard it, he heard the sound of rain.

He turned up the volume, which made her cry. For it cut right into her, the volume of the television that is. And this war began, between him and her, everytime it rains. He began to long for the days of the fry-up, where he only had himself in his tiny box of an apartment smack in the middle of the city with Richard upstairs, and Rita downstairs, of course he had never spoken to either.

He longed for the days where he had blinds, which he could control with a remote control, and shut out the sun, and daylight, and sleep in the whole weekend. Where he could watch whatever he liked, whenever he liked, at whatever volume he pleases. And when the sounds of the busy city got loud outside, he could pull his sound-canceling headphones over his ears. He had a pretty sweet world there.

Soon, everytime it rains, it seemed she had a new flaw so when the monsoon season flew around, she lost all her zing, and all he could hear in his head was, tap tap, tap tap, what was so good about her after all, tap tap.

And as the rain rapped and tapped the attap roof, her worries would lift, and she would smile. 

But he, he would turn up the television. 

Then one day, in the middle of a heavy pourdown, him tense in his armchair, and she engrossed in her painting, her beauty lost all hold of him and he screamed. He screamed and he screamed and he screamed turning up the volume of the television. It was then she turned to look him in the eye, and saw him as he is.

The sound of the television cut through the cool damp darkness that surrounded her shattering the world around her, and sharply cut right through her and she sobbed, and teared, and cried a cry from deep within her. He He turned around and packed up his big leather suitcase, and drove his car back to his tiny box of an apartment underneath Richard, never to come back.

She slowly turned back to her painting and painted the picture of his promises shattering into a million pieces before falling to the ground, a tiny piece at a time.

It was months before it started raining again, but it did rain again and as the rain rapped and tapped the attap roof her sadness melted and washed away as she sang and dance to the rhythmic beat that brought a smile to her beautiful face. And he, he put on his voice cancelling headphones and turned up DJ Samsa's tunes so loud he could not even hear himself, and they lived happily ever after in their own little worlds. All because of the rain.

the kensington swan

Saturday night saw the rain pouring down loudly and heavily and as the clock ticked on he started to worry that she might not make it for the date. She was already reluctant to begin with, and any excuse especially something like the weather would seem to her as an opportunity to get out of it. He had tried so hard to get her to agree to come, after all Mrs.Barnes the housekeeper had already begun preparing the scrumptious meal and her daughter Amelia had set the table and lit the scented candles in anticipation. They were all excited for him, that he should finally have a date.

And when the time drew near, Mrs.Barnes drew him his warm bath, and put in it the scented lavender oil to calm his dear nerves. She placed the white shirt she had carefully ironed on the corner of his bed next to the wool pants she had just draped along the foot of the bed. She had watched the dear man grow up. Took care of him from when he was a baby, and when Mr and Mrs Kensington, his parents passed away, together in an accident, at quite a young age she took on the responsibility of being housekeeper to their dear son, who was only fresh at 17. She often felt indebted to the Kensingtons, after all they have been the ones who took her and her dear Amelia in after Mr.Barnes disappeared in that expedition. So young Mr.Kensington she carefully and loyally served.

He grew up to be a fine young chap in all ways but his looks. He had been unfortunate to have been born without good looks. He was undashing, ugly if one may dare say. His facial features were so close together that his face looks as if it had collapsed into the middle. And his nose was flat and skewed, with the right nostril bigger than the left. His forehead was sloped upwards to a bump just below his very high hairline. If that were not bad enough he suffered a bad case of psoriasis that caused his skin to scale and flake shedding pieces of dead skin as he walked. Some said he was paying the dues that the generations of Kensingtons owed to the country. The millions that they had swindled, and the good lives of many they had ruined.

He stepped out of his bath and dried himself before slipping on that luscious robe. The sale of the Kensington casino his parents left him had bought him a lifetime of luxury. But the man was far from lazy and he worked day and night on his endless inventions that have earned him his professorship at a young age. He had the intelligence of the Kensingtons, and he put it to good use too. So it was unfortunate that he was ugly. Unfortunate indeed. He dressed himself and combed his hair without looking at his face in the mirror. His own face made him weak in the knees and filled him with a deep sense of knowing that she would not come. She would not and he knew it.

He slipped on his watch and looked at the time. Ten to seven. He unbuttoned his shirt again and slipped it off only to slip it back on again. He felt foolish dressing up and getting all excited for nothing really. Nothing. He slipped it off again and slid his pants off. He slided in between his clean warm sheets and lay there for a while. He closed his eyes and waited for the clock to strike seven. His heart began to beat a million beats a second and he could hear its thumping loud and clear. He hated that he felt weak this way. Foolish, and defeated. He could not help but hope she would come. Hope. He got up at the sound of the chimes and dressed. He re-combed his hair and was a neat sleek man by the time he was ready.

He lit the fire in the lounge and sat on his armchair to read his book, in a half-hearted, excited manner jumping up from his seat at every sound his ears picked up. Mrs.Barnes and Amelia sat in the kitchen and crossed their fingers waiting as the ran continued to pour. Amelia began to pray out loud for her heart went out to dear Mr.Kensington who had always looked out for her. Please do not let him be disappointed, oh will he be disappointed mother? She asked. Mrs.Barnes shook her head, no the good Lord will not let a good man down. She hoped not anyway.

When the clock struck eight their hopes wore thin and he stormed into the kitchen and began blowing out the candles as hot tears welled up in his eyes. Mrs.Barnes urged him to wait a minute or two more but he had already given up hope. He had been waiting his whole life, he said. It was time he moved on. Yes dear Mr.Kensington had been waiting for love the whole 40 years of his life now. 40 whole years. Mrs.Barnes’ heart sank when she heard him say 40 whole years and her heart filled immediately with an intense sort of sadness for the man and she began to clear the table. It was not fair was it now? Did he not deserve to love, or be loved?

The world however was a cruel place indeed, and somebody who was ugly like him, the world would not forgive. If it did not forgive ugliness, how then could he expect it to shower him with love?

He slumped onto his armchair by the fire after blowing out the last candle and opened his book. A sort of limp sadness hung about. The sort that resembles a hurt whimpering puppy that had just been beaten, struck down and abandoned. A whimpering puppy that had just lost all hope in humans. The sadness melted over them three and the mother and daughter began cleaning up in the kitchen ever so quietly. Disappointment in the world need not be articulated, neither was there to articulate that deep sense of disappointment in God.

He slumped deeper and absorbed the words on his book just to get lost in it. He sighed out loud getting ready to admit his defeat to the world. The cruel world. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth as if to surrender and admit his defeat, he should give up hope and let the world win. No ugly man should be loved. He sighed deeply and before he whispered the words that would let the last of his hope slip into thin air, the doorbell rang, a cheerful ring and the limp sadness broke, first in the kitchen. And Mrs.Barnes, who was saying her prayers ever so fervently in the kitchen for her dear master sprung up and ran to the door to open it. And there she was, drenched from the rain chirped. So sorry I am late, I had to trudge through the rain.

And the limp sadness broke in the lounge and he put down his book and smiled a secret victory smile at the cruel cruel world, for he had won. He had won. She who he thought would not come trudged through the rain to meet him.

He got up to greet her and she smiled a warm warm smile.

And the limp sadness broke in his heart

Sorry I am late, she said and he smiled back at her, a victorious smile indeed.

dreams and a pitter patter sunrise

She closed her eyes, and there right before her she could see it. The world, hers, revolving around her. The carnival unicorn on the merry-go-round whisks past to jump over a rainbow and the striped candy-man spins a cotton candy. All this whisked past her, in black and white, silently. Like a silent film, yes. She did not know why tears began welling up but they did and she pursed her lids shut, reluctant to open them, and she forced the images to keep rolling before her. And they did, over and over like a silent, broken record.

Shower me with dreams, was her prayer. Were those the only things she was capable of dreaming up? Her dream-gear is somewhat stuck in reverse and she feels, helplessly the incapability of dreaming something new for herself. Monocolour unicorns from carnivals are cliched, they are from Mary Poppins, and even Mary Poppins was in colour! She could very well go on with life, of course, after all dreams were just dreams, they had no value whatsoever to living, do they? And yet, shower me with dreams she prayed.

And the film reeled on.

here we go looby-loo,
here we go looby-lie,
here we go looby-loo,
all on a Saturday night

And there they were, putting their right foot in and out the circle. And then the rhyme stopped and all she could see were laughing faces, and her, doing it all wrong. She could not hear them after all, and so she did it all wrong and they were all laughing out loud at her, except she could not hear them. She opens her eyes and rubs them. When was the last time she saw things in colour, she thought, everything about her was gray. Black and white, and gray. Not even blue. How she longed to see the blue blue sea, and the blue blue sky again. But that is her world now, monocolour. Shower me with dreams, colourful dreams, she prayed.

Pitter patter sunrise on the attap roof
pitter patter raindrops in the sun
rainbow coloured arch over the attap roof
fly baby fly into the sky

She looked enviously around at the ones who saw things in colour and she came close to crying, but not again, not tears again. And so she sat on the couch in the middle of the glass house waiting for the day her eyes would see the rainbow. As her eyelids began to feel heavy under the noonday sun she let them droop and she closed her eyes and tried to remember the last time she saw a rainbow. She tried to remember, she longed to remember the days where dreams came easy, and her eyes saw the rainbow.

Conversations with Kerala

Taken from the train: Varkala to Ernakulam Junction

And so she greeted me. There was something about this call, made on an offbeat, that had made meeting her different. As unenthused, hesitant and cautious I was about my journey to her, I purged myself of all judgments and rid myself of expectations of her. I hardly put my mind to any of the preparations, whatever we had to do - visas, medication, packing the light clothing, I did from the back of my mind. But it was as if my body, my soul knew she was waiting, and my brain had somehow sent signals to all my senses to buck up and then I felt it, it begin to empty, to unload, while my heart began to soften and it opened up on the inside to make space for the things it thought I was about to see. And as I made my way to the airport that morning, my eyes, ears and senses began to open, and I made my way to her, with the huge open space within me.

The thing is I heard of her long before I met her. Heard stories, and knew she was somewhat old, somewhat ancient, somewhat struggling, but in someways rich. I knew she was perceived to be poor, for she had so many children to feed, and I am not sure whether she aches as her children starve, or whether she delightfully devours their bodies, consuming them into the centre of her, as they disintegrate back to dust. But I always guessed that she prayed, she prayed hard, and she prayed a whole lot.

I know some people, most, hate her. The water she bore somehow poisons most who are foreign. She was seen to be harsh to those who visit her, ripping them apart with the chaos, the vastness, the richness within her, and breaking them with the poverty that gripped her. But as we drew near and we saw the lush green that greeted those planes, I was at her mercy, and hoped that she would treat me kindly. I whispered to her that I was here, and then I stepped out onto her land, and I told her I wanted her to somehow connect with me, be a part of me. I feel her slowly seep her way in to welcome me deeply from the insides out and I took her in, slowly.

In the three-wheeler to Jew Town

She coaxed me ever to gently and introduced herself first mildly, with welcoming smiles and moustaches. I smiled, as he spoke a warm welcome and his head flopped from side to side. I noted the first indian chin wag I had received and my open brain lapped up that first little memory, as it folded it up and stored it in that empty drawer, in that space it had made for her.

A chirpy saronged man greeted us with a sort of a comforting brashness, and warmth. We waited for our little taxi as I looked around me at the sarongs and sarees. A certain surrealness washed over as we got into the taxi and I told Al, I can't believe we're here. I looked out the open window and I felt my brains processing what she saw carefully, slowly storing it up as if I would draw upon the memories again later, and my eyes were actively searching, working to see all I could see. The noise began to find its way into my space and the minute it invaded, the minute I heard her, let her voice in, it flooded. The honks, constant honks, the music, and then her smells began to float in and I saw her, what I could see of her, the tip of her cotton saree as she welcomed us, arms wide open onto her dusty roads, her lampposts adorned with posters of one of her favourite stars, Shah Rukh Khan.

The taxi driver and the saronged uncle, who was nonchalant about timing and distances, yakked away as we drove past sugar cane drink stalls set up in the middle of nowhere, people crossing roads and staring, and then moving on with their business. Over the next few days I knew my brains would hardly have the time to even stop to talk to me, it was busy cutting, folding, pasting, storing, and I felt myself expand on the inside to make space for her vastness, her colour, her smells, her sounds, sounds of the auto-drivers honking, the Malayalam ramblings, the chimes, the bells, the call to prayers, the cars. And when we finally got home, to the Mylanthra house where we were staying, and Uncle Basil rung the bells to announce our arrivals we stepped into the idyllic brick home that was humble and comfortable, earthy and we slapped on some repellent and sat down to our first Malayalee meal. Fish, prawns and bittergourd and as I conversed with Uncle Basil and Auntie Annie, his wife, and Al, and so began what would be our conversation with Kerala.

Verandah - Mylanthra House

I filled up the stainless steel tub with a mixture of hot and cold water and began cleaning up for the day. Brushing my teeth I recalled a certain conversation I had with her earlier, before I came. I told her I had no expectations of her, no judgments but I would so very much want to get to know her and in that conversation I thought I heard her ask for space. I thought I heard her say that she was different, and then she said that if I allowed if I could just clear some space for her, she could change me. I took her word for it, I believed her, I believed she would change me. And as I scooped the water up and poured it down my head, I felt its comforting flow on my skin as it cleansed me. And I began to feel her fingers, soft brown fingers reaching into the memories my dear brain has carefully stored up. She skillfully pinched a bit of my flesh, mostly from my middle, and began to knead carefully those memories into me. She carefully kneaded herself into me, making sure I would carry whatever parts of her I have taken with me, back home. She knew I would.

Jew Town, Cochin

As Al and I breathed her in and saw what the sights, the people she boldly allowed us to see we took her in and as I pondered about her each night, while reading I was glad I was glad I came with Al, for he was gracious enough to allow me to my senses, to allow me to really let go, and be myself, so I could get to know her. I guessed his heart opened up too for we shared things that were beyond just skin and bones. Our conversations often just brief, and yet, to me seem to matter for it was substantial, for it often was of the heart of the matter, rather than matter itself. I guess she knew we were meant for her, there and then.

I went empty and hollow, and I knew I would return pregnant. I often turn back to look at her, and I see her in her cotton saree sitting on her wooden stool old, wrinkled yet dignified. There was something about her, she accepted her lot quite simply, whatever her mother nature had gifted to her she accepted, and she just was. I smiled as the revelation hit me. I knew that somehow she chose me. She knew I would accept her and because of that she did as she promised, she changed me. I smiled and know nobody can take her away from me really, because I had allowed her soft fingers to hold and shape and knead herself. I was pliable for her and she then did all she could to help me with life, and she did it the way only she can. I turn to see the part of her that I had already experienced and met, her warm maternal smile that was gentle.

Varkala - At the Cliff of Black Beach

of dreams and memories

She opened her eyes and saw nothing for it was still dark. She sighed, she had been dreaming the same dream since. In her dream her little Sarah Jane skips towards her and jumps onto her knee. She would rearrange her white skirt that creased underneath the little girl and they would have bread and jam in the garden on their little afternoon tea table. Cross legged on the grass they would sit and she would butter the bread with the knife and allowed her little Sarah Jane to pile on the peanut butter and jam with her little teaspoon before she spreads it. Sarah Jane would often eat peanut butter out of the pottle and stuck the little teaspoon back in. She would wince and the little girl would start to giggle, and they would both giggle and giggle so hard their whole body would shake.

The sun would often shine through the trees and their little afternoon table was strategically placed on the spot where the sun shone through. They sat a little shaded by the trees. On the ground was grass, and pink and white daisies. Sarah Jane would begin to pick these flowers and put them in her hair. And she would smile, even in her sleep, she would smile. If she woke at this part of the dream, she woke happy. So every night she would try to wake, she would force her eyes open before he came. Before he walked into their messy afternoon tea. Sometimes though she would be too tired, and the dream would reel on.

He would come, and picked them both up and told us stories as he drew them close to him and they would snuggle up close, just like they used to do in the old days, and they would rest on his chest and listen to his stories. It was about here that the happy scenes fade, and there were gunshots to be heard, and he would get up to leave and Sarah would often cry when it was time for him to go but he would leave a little gift behind, a little painting, or a pink and white daisy chain and she would let him go hesitantly and he would wait till she smiled, through those tears, and when she did he would leave.

And in her dream she would fall asleep, and time would lapse, and she would often wake up to find herself lying in the rubble, alone. Where is Sarah Jane, she would ask, and she would frantically look around for her little Sarah Jane in the rubble and her heart would break so hard in the dream that her sleeping body would ache right through from head to toe and she would toss and turn in discomfort. At times her tears would stream down her face, whilst she was still sleeping, and at times she would wake, tired and she would squeeze her eyes shut again, because it would often be dark and she would feel the cold, and the hollowness of the empty house her little tiny body was an occupant of and she would feel loneliness, the kind that was amplified so much that she would hear herself calling out for someone to come, and then hear the echo in her own head, and that echo would resonate reminding her of the hollowness inside. And it was hollow indeed, and it had been hollow for a long time, hollow ever since...

The next part of her dream she feared the most, but knew too well. There was nothing she could do, waking had other nightmares in itself, especially at this hour, and so she would often fall back into that same sleep, and let that same dream haunt her. That dream savoured every moment it could to torture her, and so sometimes would replay the happy scene, again and again, to remind her of what had been lost. She would feel herself lifted up, high, during the happy scenes, and then, when she awoke, in her dream, in that rubble, she would feel herself drop a thousand feet down into a sort of dark depth. Hopeless.

She would toss and turn unwilling to see what was next, but her dream would not allow it. It would now force her eyes closed, sat on her and lay on her heavy, so she could not move, could not jerk herself to wake and it would play before her, very slowly, savouring every moment of pain. She would see herself in the rubble, and she would see his face, his gentle face, loving and kind and then she would see herself.

It was this part of the dream she understood the least. She really felt lost. She would look far and wide for Sarah Jane, and then she would find her with him, safe and she would walk back to the rubble. She would often yearn to speak to them when she saw them, and when she approached, they drifted further and further, and she would not be able to reach them. At times he would see her and wave, and then a sadness would come upon his face and he would pick Sarah Jane up and draw the curtains. She would keep searching.

And she would arrive, at a corner of the rubble and see his feet behind a large easel, and she would speak to him, and he would not speak back, all she would hear him say was the word why, and she would ask him why what, and he would just repeatedly ask her why. And she would be frustrated and ran to the front of the easel and grab him and he would collapse and she would see his face, bruised and battered, with no eyes in his socket and she would scream and there would be blood on her hands, and she would look in the easel to see a picture of Sarah Jane and her heart would harden just so she could brace herself for what was to come.

And she would stand in horror, her eyes glued to the open eyes of the pale little girl lying in a fetal position looking up with pleading eyes at her. Her tender hands and he once pink cheeks drained of all its blood, its colour, its life, drained to the pool on the floor and there was a knife right in her chest, her heart, and all life had been drawn out of her by that. Her eyes studied the pale little girl who lay still in fetal position, in pain and she stared, and stared for what seemed like forever and felt, all of a sudden, a deep calm, and nothingness. Wide eyed she would stare at this painting in her dream. Wide eyed she would stare at the picture of her Sarah Jane in pain.

And she would begin to feel faint, in her dream, and fall a fall that felt like forever back onto the rubble where she awoke, and when she awoke she would find, the thing that hurt her most, the knife. The knife she would find in her hand, and the the dream would force her awake by opening her ears to the sound of her alarm clock echoing in that huge empty house and she would force herself up with Sarah Jane’s pain still fresh in her mind, wondering why she held the knife in her hand and then she would go through the day haunted by memories she was unwilling to accept as hers. And then she would come home exhausted from the battle with her memories so ready to sleep, only to find no rest, because at night, when memories rest, that dream, would replay itself, again and again and again, probably until the day she dies.