From: t60bss9@mp.cs.niu.edu (Bijoy Sagar)
Newsgroups: soc.culture.indian
Subject: Story: He comes when it rains 1/2
Date: 5 Jan 1993 17:24:31 -0600
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
NNTP-Posting-Host: cs.utexas.edu

He comes when it rains
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I still remember that warm afternoon journey by the boat to Elephanta caves
with old man Nanchibhai. I was sitting on a windowseat close enough to bend
and touch the surf of seawater that the boat sprayed as it moved. On the 
opposite seat, sat a white tourist with a stern face that revealed no interest
in any activity around him. His indian lover kept trying to engage him by 
pressing his hands on her middle aged breasts without much success. Her skin
had the complexion of dried wood as it disappeared into her shirt sleeves.

I was barely out of my teens then. Somehow I felt great pity for her. She did
try to look cheerful like she was lost unto nothing, in spite of the dark
alienating clouds that spread around her eyes. Their son, a tall kid with
a lot of determination, practiced his jump from the cracked wooden seat to the
floor. He was totally lost in the quest for perfection and was oblivious to 
the battle between senility and sensuality around him. I could feel the chill
in the air and it began to rain. I detested the rain for the first time, as it
played little beats on the tin roof and sprayed the water surface with thousands
of water needles. I felt the dark clouds around her eyes within me as listened
to the requiem of the rain to the losing battle of her sensuality with dotage.
Nanchibhai must have been surprised as I wiped my face clean of rain drops and
the salt of my own eyes.

Years later, sitting by the window of our department building, listening to
the sound of rain drops splattering to the ground, I became conscious of that
sadness in me that lasted all those years. It was as if the rains carried
it for me and washed me clean with pain every time they visited the city.
The indigo lines drawn across the skyscape underlined the feeling og depravity
I felt at that time. The rain drops had collected under the window as a small
puddle where bubbles looking like real pearls formed and broke as each new 
drop fell and mixed into it. 

This was the milieu of my first meeting with Pink Floyd. His real name was
Floyd Almeida but everyone called him Pink Floyd, a name which he seemed to
like. His skin was not the least pink, in fact it shone like setting rays on
a heap of wheat. He walked in armed with a gay smile, determined to break
the spell of sadness around me, or so it seemed.

"Bijoy", he called with a loud voice clear of uncertainties. I gave him a 
faint smile of suspicion. Without looking for a particular reaction, he 
continued," I am Floyd, the new student, your field partner". His smile
had rings of rain to it. The joviality of his bearing stood out in rivalry
with the helpless pain that rain had brought and the sad picture of the
dark-skinned Indian woman on the boat with her white lover. Floyd somehow
became a catalyst to the key of my memory chest over a period, never
losing his smile, challenging me to fight my pain with the millions of soothing
needles of warmth.

And that is how a friendship grew between us. Even in the fleeting moments 
we saw each other while passing the damp corridor where fungi drew green
pictures, he never failed to challenge my sadness with his smile.

Field partnership that we had between us, made us travel together. And that
is how we ended up walking in that forlorn cemetery together. 

We were in a small town which had been an army base for the british soldiers.
In the evening, tired of the hard work in the heat and the dust and the
high-pitched humming of mosquitos in the tropical heat, we decided to take
a wanton stroll. The somnabulic walk took us to an abandoned church and
a grave yard around it. Without even glancing at each other, we walked inside
pushing the rusted gates open.

"Janet Nicholson", the inscription on the first marker read, " Born July12,
 1793 , Died September 4, 1812". It was a british graveyard and all the 
inscriptions that we read faint electric light, indicated that it was for
the young. Nubile maidens defeated by the tropical heat and cherubic 
youths killed in their own flaming passions of war. Floyd laughed in silence in a sad way. It took me a while to realize that the water drops that wet
my eye lashes were indeed rain. The summer rain smelled like moths and
sounded like a funeral songs of crickets. Water drops fell on Janet's grave
with precision, not wanting to waste it sorrow elsewhere. The rest of the
night passed in a dream of crickets, moths and nubile young things resting
in coffins.


Newsgroups: soc.culture.indian