Rain

Eyelids briefly blink followed by the sensation of being stirred awake. Pillows are lifted. It is time. A bit beyond time, but the need to hasten lurks at a distance as if in an attempt to mislead. The market is old, yet to reconcile itself with a changed city, taking pride in all it has not achieved, a mere obstacle in time's path, painted nonetheless. Oxen parade, a mute fierceness raging through the narrow slits posing as eyes, their humps fiercely malignant. Voices, evolved to rise over the din threaten to induce headache. And repairs follow. Hands exchange wads, eyes grins and phones numbers. Time ticks away. The louring skies briefly smirk, the day having settled into a permanent evening long ago.

The hospital, wrapped in coils of heavy traffic, watches impassively as the frantic search continues. The streets beyond open up to the portals of a new town, where roads are streaked with brown furrows of rain. Brisk steps follow, shins sting in joy, and movement laden with purpose churns the wind away. Obscure lanes follow the sea of direction as the hum of traffic is replaced with rickshaws' tired bellows and murmuring footsteps. When the destination at last reveals itself, it is empty, almost listless, breathing furtive and heavy as if in the aftermath of battle. The faces of the few that remain are as weary as wary. What is promised remains no more. The deadline has been missed by a whole ten minutes. This is Delhi and there are many ways in which they could have leaked out. Many reasons.

There is talk with hope for remedy, with hope for a new day, the former falls flat while the latter infused with glimpses of redemption propels the wheels ahead. A brief walk, the customary warm light against cylindrical walls of red brick and strangers with moustaches, receding hairlines and warm smiles lead up to the stairs under the blue light. There are more moustaches, narrowing like young Indian princes' prematurely crowned king, and purple ties hugging large bellies. There are green tiles and orange tiles, cages for the white-hatted. There are songs, Arabic, palely fervent pinching the air. Meat that arrives with its price is decimated by hunger. It is odd, strangely odd, foolishly odd, fulfilling a desire for folly.

Hours later, reversed numbers in their coincidences grin dark under the night's silence and there is the blinking again. It is a new taste, bitter, advancing from the fringes. When it is finally time, it is too early. As the day pinches itself awake, taking its time, the sky rumbles and the ground hisses with rain. The old legs are back, mixing uncanny ingredients, stirring up inedible mixtures. Time plays truant. It culminates in a need for solitude, no not quite so, but the company of one, the teacher who does the talking while the other attempts comprehension. The alternative to clinking glasses, laughter, aprons, forks and fumes, the choice is almost sombre, and yet calming as a cool shower of rain.