Perspectives

It was only today that one of my friends blogged about Calcutta rains. I must thank her for reminding me of my childhood and for unknowingly inspiring me to write again.

1.

He proceeded along the newly renovated pavements of FD Block, Salt lake with his hands balled up in his pockets to give himself a semblance of warmth on this cold windy evening. Walking as briskly as an opposing strong wind and the fatigue of a long, hard day at work would allow, he headed in search of Flat no. 453 where the last so-called sponsorship prospect lay ready to ruin his day even further, to throw him out of the house with utmost respect on his façade and total disregard for his work on his mind.

It was then that something cold hit his head, not once, not twice but like a continuous stream of cold, sharp bullets. He looked up to see the rain gods hurling their blessings upon him- a blessing he would gladly live without in this day and time- a blessing he could -if within his powers- let the world live without.

For he hated the rains. Rains reminded him of love, of romance, of the girl who could never be his. He remembered those days he spent getting drenched in the rains to be with her, the days he would leave his emergency umbrella locked up inside his room in the hopes that he would be able to spend some quality time with her in the “kalboishakhi” winds- all those days for nothing!!!

That beautiful, innocent face giggling away and tempting him to join her outside the house, a face full of the purity and innocence with which she had once loved him- only to go away to London without even a proper goodbye, without any explanations or letters or emails or promises of keeping in touch.  How cruel could she be!

The rains were now pouring down even stronger with a force that seemed to be generated to tear him down to pieces.  The sky turned darker and darker as if the devil himself was taking over the world and snatching away the sun. He could stand it no longer- the images of his childhood days flashed before his eyes-  days he spent inside the house- sad without his friends, watching the rains through the window and cursing them for ruining the planned cricket match in the neighbourhood or the school picnic or the movie day.

He could drag himself along no more- the brunt of the rain was too much for him- the brunt of depression and sad memories. Approaching in the distance he saw a yellow and black ambassador car and signalled for it to stop. The cabbie opened the window and asked “where to?”  He thought for a moment about the reply, and with a quivering voice said “Anywhere but here”

2.

He proceeded along the newly renovated pavements of FD Block, Salt lake- arms open, chest wide, breathing in the cool wind of the evening and rejoicing in the thought of another prospect lying  few hundred metres away , a faint glimmer of hope still lighting up his already bright eyes in spite of the bad day at work. He knew this person would be a challenge to convince, but he was looking forward to it- ready to answer all his queries, to pitch no matter what.  What was there to lose after all! The wind seemed to bring about a spring in his step, making him forget the long, hard day at work he had just come out of.

It was then that something cold hit his head- a continuous stream of flowers showered upon you at a wedding. He looked up to see the rain gods and their blessings being showered upon him- a blessing he was praying for the whole day.

For he loved the rains. Rains reminded him of love, of romance, of the girl whom he loved with all the passion and warmth that a fifteen year old boy could muster. He remembered those days he spent getting drenched in the rains to be with her, the days he would leave his emergency umbrella locked up inside his room in the hopes that he would be able to spend some quality time with her in the “kalboishakhi” winds- those days which would be etched in his memory forever like pages of his favourite book, like the taste of his favourite dish.

That beautiful, innocent face giggling away and tempting him to join her outside the house, a face full of the purity and innocence with which she had once loved him- but she had had to go away with her father to London and go away she did.  There were no sad goodbyes, no tears, no letters or emails or false promises of keeping in touch and remembering the other forever- she remained the perfect memory, the crest with no trough, the most beautiful gift of his life.

The rains brought back other memories too- of the days he had to stay inside the house unable to go for the planned cricket match in the neighbourhood or the school picnic or the movie day. He remembered those days fondly for those days he could spend more time with dad, with mom. Those days he could pester his dad to read him a book or go to the kitchen with his mom to gossip with her while she was cooking!

Yes the rain gave him hope- hope of a good life, hope of reliving those wonderful moments again.

Approaching in the distance he saw a yellow and black ambassador and signalled for it to stop. The cabbie opened the window and asked “where to?”  He thought for a moment about the reply, and with a voice full of the energy and enthusiasm which he could gather said “I need to go to flat 453. Tell me the way and I shall walk”

Life is all about perspectives my dear friend. It’s simply about the one you choose to live with,