The Rain Remembers What We Forget
It started around four in the afternoon, the way it always does here, without warning and without apology. One minute the light was that flat white it gets before a Bangalore storm, and the next the whole street had gone silver. I was standing at the window with a cup of tea that had already gone cold, watching the rain turn the road into something older than the road. There is a particular sound that rain makes on this city. Not the drumming you hear in the plains, not the roar of the coast. It is softer, broken up by all the trees we still somehow have left. The rain hits a rain tree first, then a gulmohar, then finally the ground, and by the time it reaches you it has been filtered through three different kinds of leaf. It arrives sounding almost polite. Below my window, the usual choreography began. The tender coconut vendor pulled a blue tarpaulin over his cart in one practiced motion, a move he must have made ten thousand times. A woman coming back from the market lifted her bag ...