I spent the whole of last evening on the verandah. Watching the rain as it poured down, unexpectedly, awkwardly, like most of my conversations with you end nowadays. I watched the street dog you used to cuddle staring out from my neighbour’s garage, hopelessly wet. I remember how you used to cuddle that dog when it was young. Dogs grow up so fast, it has its own kids now.

And things change so fast. 

The forecast said it would rain all evening. It had rained all day anyway, the forecast seemed unimportant now. Only the puddles grew wider, a few dislodged paper boats flung onto the street sank deeper. Gloom was written everywhere.
I don’t know why I was humming Wonderful Tonight. Possibly because it was your birthday. And I remembered how crazy your birthday parties used to be. But I hadn’t wished you yet. And I definitely wasn’t invited.

The rain poured down, possibly oblivious of the season, of what spring is meant to bring, of how love is vain beyond a point. The first hour is welcome, rain. It’s time you learn where to draw the line between longing and scorn. It’s great being oblivious of stuff that affects you, it’s great being rain. It’s great being someone not repenting your excesses and your mistakes, as long as they don’t change you. The rain doesn’t care about the puddles, the sunken paper boats, the mud. Human beings are the unlucky race.

A man walked by with considerable haste, half wet, trying his best to keep his black sling bag as dry as possible. I remember how I did the same when I shared my umbrella with you. How priorities transform with time. Like everything else.

I was feeling cold when I left the verandah. I had learnt to feel cold when wet nowadays. And walk away when it hurts.


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