*Rainy days* The first thing he did when he stepped off the airplane was take a long, deep breath. He could smell the approaching rain. The grey sky was cloudy, and he knew it was a matter of time before it began to pour. A full, bursting joy began to take him from the pit of his stomach and he was overcome with emotion. He wanted to laugh and cry and shout and hug someone, but he had come alone and was in the midst of a hundred strange brown faces and so had to tone it down to just a huge smile. It had been four years since he had been in his native land. Four years in a hot, dry country, where the rains came only for a short period at the end of the year when it was too cold to enjoy them anyway. It was strange, but what he missed most about his homeland was not his friends or family – it was the weather. Skype and Facebook kept him updated on who was engaged to whom, who was now in the Navy, and which family member whom he had never met died at the age of 91, but they did not have the power to bring to him the monsoonal rains that he loved so very, very much. He had left when he was but a boy, fresh from high school. His last memories from here were days outside with his friends, playing football in the frequent rains (even though they couldn’t see five feet in front of them) and running away from his mother’s menacing broom when he came home covered in mud. This kind of weather was also perfect for romantic endeavors – he would take a girl out on his bike and time it such that they would be caught in a massive storm. They would hastily pull up to a coffee shop and laugh together as they sipped hot lattes and watched the rain ruthlessly pelt the glass front of the cafe. Ah, the memories … He caught a bus to the nearest train station and bought a ticket to a town two states away. He hadn’t told anyone that he was back yet … they assumed his plane was coming in only next week. He waited for three hours in the crowded station, getting through six tiny tumblers of milky tea, a novel, and two magazines. When the old train pulled up, he fought his way through the throngs of people moving in every direction and jumped on, clutching his small bag tightly against his body. Against all odds, he managed to find an empty window seat where he hastily plonked himself down. The scent of the impending rain followed him throughout the noisy, chaotic journey. It seemed that the clouds were hot on his trail but couldn’t quite catch up to him. He finished a John Grisham novel in six hours of non-stop reading that were interrupted only by the occasional cup of tomato soup that loud vendors sold to him. He spent the next few hours staring out at stretches of intensely green landscape that were yet unsullied by the smoke and horrible construction that accompany urbanization. By the time he arrived at his destination, it was late in the afternoon, and the air was getting a little chilly. He pulled his phone out of his bag and, following digital instructions, walked to the authentic guest house he had booked a room in. He signed in and arranged his room to his liking. The owner’s wife, a large middle-aged woman with graying curly hair, brought him a huge, delicious meal of rice and stew that he ate with his hands. The nip in the air was more obvious now, so he pulled on a sweater and grabbed a mug of tea as he made his way to the veranda. He brought another novel with him, but put it down after ten minutes of just mindlessly staring at the words on the page. He walked to the step leading to the massive gardens surrounding the house and sat down, cradling his mug between his fingers. A stray dog, foreseeing the wet weather to come, wandered in through the garden. He invited the dog in to sit beside him, scratched her absentmindedly behind the ears, and gave her a cookie. The clouds had darkened. It should happen any time now… A water droplet fell on his left Nike. He looked up. The canopy of trees above him was shaking furiously, and winds whipped his unkempt hair around. Another drop. And another. The joy that had filled him at the airport came rushing back to him, and he began to freely cry as the drizzle marked his sweater and trousers with tiny dark spots. It had been too long. Now he was home. - Meghna Thomas TAW Admin Search. Entry # 1
Posted on: Thu, 02 Oct 2014 10:30:01 +0000
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