From: t60bss9@mp.cs.niu.edu (Bijoy Sagar)
Newsgroups: alt.culture.kerala,soc.culture.indian
Subject: Story: He comes when it rains. Part 2/2
Date: 5 Jan 1993 02:02:04 -0600
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
NNTP-Posting-Host: cs.utexas.edu


He comes when it rains 2/2
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

That was the last trip we took together. On our return journey 
he entertained me with a collection of lewd songs sang to the rhythm of 
his fingers tapping his fat thighs even as the train moved cutting the darkness
into halves with its bright lights. Though we promised each other to travel
together in future, it was never to be.

Shortly, Floyd left school to pursue a career totally unrelated to his
school work and I lost touch with him. At that time, entangled in a relationship
that brought golden fire flies in my dreams and yellow sunflowers in fantasies,
I had little time or inclination to seek out old friends and remember old faces.

Then a year later, the monsoons came like a downpour of memories. I was all 
alone after the sunflowers suddenly withered and the fireflies lost their fire.
I wandered trying to seek refuge in the memories of the past and in revisited
old friendships that appeared like shadows in the mist. It was time to leave 
India for the US without any plan to visit for another five years. Nostalgia
forced me to spend all my time with old friends in the school cafeteria, 
killing moments over watery tea that was light enough to be tears.

Then one of those afternoons Floyd walked in unannounced and cheered us all
with his characteristic witty disposition. There was a girl with him who
smelled like wild flowers as she sat next to me, smiling politely at
everyone of his jokes and not caring that he did not think it necessary to
introduce her. She was dark and had wide eyes, and reminded me of the 
indian woman on the boat with her sad looks.

Floyd asked me to accompany him to the gate as he took his leave. He was 
returning to his work place and the chances were bleak that we would meet 
again. I felt sad and so did he. We walked on the narrow pavement where 
yesterday's rain had left light patches of wetness. The purple flowers on
the fence smelled like the young girl we were walking with, as the damp
winds carried it all around us. The road looked busy with countless people
walking around with any conceivable purpose. They looked like movie extras,
just looking busy, walking around to add meaning to a street scene. Fat,
happy, lean, moody, shabby, trendy, cruel, benign, their presence was
like life itself. Floyd hurried as thunder announced rain. The girl
smiled a silent farewell filled with the pain of an unknown past and
wild flowers, as they hurried away into the beginnings of the rain.

Yesterday, it rained all the time. The green prairies looked tired and
bedraggled. There were puddles but no music of frogs. The cross looked
washed and solemn as I passed the church on my way home. The street
lamps had tears on them. The passerby looked apologetic, as if they were
responsible for the untimely rain.

In the building lounge, I stopped to shake water from my clothes
which were sticking close, cold from the ablusion. In the dark corner
I saw an indian lady sitting on a suitcase, next to her white husband.
It appeared that she had just arrived. She was in her early thirtees 
and had a bee hive for hair. Her husband was wiry, with an alabaster skin,
who stood in the shadows with a nonchalant face covered with shadows
that looked like cobwebs. She kept pushing her hair away from the sad plump
face with an air of annoyance.

I started as a feeling of dejavu returned to me. I wanted the rains
to come with the needles of pain. I wanted to weep. I hastened to my room
as the man put his arms around his wife and smiled for no reason.

When the darkness came like a silent intruder, I lost myself to a
plane of yesterdays and to unrepented guilts. In the midst of an 
uncomfortable sleep, I realized that I was no longer unhappy when
Floyd came visiting me in a dream full of wet streets and unrelenting
rain.

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Bijoy Sagar.
*I would welcome your criticisms. Hoe you won't flame me:-)
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Newsgroups: alt.culture.kerala