Standing at the rusted window; observing a layer of grime citied within its horizontally depressed spaces not allowing the window to slide freely; simultaneously watching wind-blown drizzle softly settle over the window pane – in the foreground the kettle lets out a flurry of vapour. Vapour and rain, what a combination. Vapour and tea, what a combination. Rain and tea, what a combination.
Windows, rain, tea, vapour, loose drizzle, rust, ignored dust, dysfunctional things – what a combination.
Assam tea. Slightly acidic, bitter, large leaved; blackish brown, emanating colonialism. The tea pickers of Assam might not know how nice their tea tastes elsewhere in other places where it rains heavily too; in equally humid weather when rain takes over the tea is medicine. The raindrops in Assam might even look similar to the ones in a Mumbai suburb – neutral and persistent.
One lifts the steaming tea cup and brings years of business to his/her lips; and shies it away with a small, reluctant sip. In the compelling distance the rain grows like a symphony; with every raindrop contributing; a growing seasonal freedom echoing across the scape. One sees the heavier raindrops disturb the faces of puddles; the lighter, more petite raindrops land on flying birds and are taken to another place. The average raindrops meet a diaspora of surfaces – roofs, cars, bikes, trucks, satellite dishes, terraces, balconies, umbrellas, streets, closed windows, hanging clothes et all. Hanging clothes. Some hang unattended on open terraces, their lines grow weaker and wetter; the raindrops get imbibed in cloth and find new homes. The careful dripping of clothes kept to dry are like unplanned poems emerging out of new places.
Some meet trees. The trees sway moodily with the eccentric winds, getting peppered by rain.
Drops cling onto branches and leaves, some travelling across their veins to end up at the tips of leaves, waiting for time to strike. Their slow descend is both comforting and spastic, like watching slow motion come to life in a real scenario.
One moves their vision to the carelessly, randomly connected wires between drenched buildings. Here drops travel along the wires like ants in a row; neatly in a military format, some fail to reach the end and drop down. Some have the stamina to disappear into a different surface.
In the greyness of the blurred environment one’s consciousness is taken over, almost lulled. When things happen repeatedly at a fast pace, they lull you. You become a passive audience, neither acting nor reacting but present. Not necessarily aware but observant, at the same time indifferent. You have no effect on the happenings around you; you cannot control the raindrops. The helplessness of watching and learning, absorbing but never fully catching hold of and being a spectator to time passing by is indeed the path to nothingness. What is rain?
Merely an event.