The weather man up there is a sadist

The clouds rolled in from the west; from the east; from a hundred different directions – dark and vicious. And when they collided with one another, a great rumbling happened. Why does the great rumbling happen when two fluffy blobs of cotton clouds collide, I ruminated? Wind swept scraps of paper and sent them twirling into the sky like confetti. Tree branches swayed like possessed dancers. And then it rained. Big, fat drops pounding into the dry earth, whipping up that sweet smell of wet sand. I peered out of the window. The kids playing cricket had disbanded their stone slab wicket and run for cover. The banana seller was frantically pulling a blue polythene cover over his cart. The boys from the dhobi ghat scampered making vain attempts at saving their just dried clothes from the clothesline. It was sudden. One drop followed another in a rapid free fall. In a few minutes, the flat in front of me had turned colour. Damp dark patches conquering the wall space in a hurry. Small puddles formed on the ground. And then they merged in magnetic alacrity with other small puddles; becoming bigger pools of water. Mother was asleep; after endless hours in the kitchen. I seized the opportunity to tiptoe to the kitchen for hidden treasures. Why does she always keep the green box with the goodies in it on the top shelf, I wonder?

I tiptoed many more times. Treading the tightrope that separated calculated risk from sure shot hara-kiri. And through all the misadventures, it had continued raining. The storm drains in the distance were overflowing. Muddy water was gushing down like in Noah’s times. The rain showed a few promising signs of petering down giving the neighborhood brats an opportunity to vet their maritime skills. Paper boats were gliding downstream one after the other like in the Pirates of the Caribbean. Everything was beginning to look washed and new. Father would be back from work at five. And just when it seemed like a well timed shower, at ten minutes to five it started all over again. Why can it not wait a bit, I cringed and wondered. Why can it not stop for a while, just so that father can walk back home from the bus stop. So that I don’t have to go, one umbrella aloft, another one in hand, because father had not bothered taking one to office again. And this, despite his perpetual paranoia for impending thunderstorms. But it is all mere wishful thinking. The rain kept penciling down in sheer dissent.

‘Just take the umbrella and go will you’, mother shouted out from the kitchen. ‘It’s time for your father to be back’.

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And I am pretty convinced the weatherman up there, controlling the shower knob has a skewed sense of humour. Who does not like the idea of me tucked up cozy with handfuls of thieved butter biscuits. And so I go through the cold and unwelcome ordeal. Jumping over puddles; making vain attempts at keeping myself dry as every passing automobile plays splash-splash. But when I get back, trouser bottom irritatingly wet and all, it’s all over. The knobs have been turned off. Can’t help but bloody ask – Why does it have to rain at 5 o clock only?