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Poetry & Prose

Requiem for a rain

by Pradip | July 2006

"Anyone who says sunshine brings happiness has never danced in the rain."

Are clouds up there—in the sky, reflection, knotted ball of emotional concoction ready to burst into rain on us—our soul, effect of which is usually seen through the crystal lenses that generate tiny droplets in our eyes? Perhaps, not for everyone, but such was certainly the case with Reena. You see, Reena had this uncanny ability to predict minor events that concerned her. She'd tell me in the morning how she had to fight over certain administrative issue at work, all in her dreams, and lo, by the time we sat for supper that evening, she'd start pouring over some of the most mundane details of her publishing job, where events that transpired in her dreams the previous night, to the most part, resembled a real life event.

Reena was my lover. Our relationship wasn't of conventional type where each considered other their respective 'unhyphenated friend'. What kind of pop culture crap is that, a series of blasé relationships without any substance, defining human affairs around certain literary fusion and specific societal norms? No sir, we were lovers in every sense of the word. We shared nothing with each other, we never went out to eat or watch movies together, never biked around the woods or strolled idly in the park, never did things mediocre couples do living in big cities. We shared something else; we shared our bodies liberally in the reckless act of fusing our soul. And in moments that followed, a sharing of common cigarette undoubtedly elevated our souls, together, the feeling that ensued I remain unable to articulate here, but its most common approximation, in all pretenses, is very elegantly touched upon by Milan Kundera in The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

It usually rained in New York, especially around late fall, just before the harshness of North Atlantic winter crept in. Unlike spring rain that brought with it hopes of pleasant and beautiful season, cold autumn rain only enhanced the gloom of the already overshadowed backdrop—skeletal trees, brown leaves on sidewalks and grey milieu all around. I liked rain, it created mystical patterns of clouds and wind which, to say the least provided a somber sense of being. But what about Reena? What about her? Well, sir, I tell you, she was one of a kind. Every time she was upset, every time her sense of being was out of balance, every time certain planets acted over her ruling planet, every time she felt like crying and couldn't, every time which was no time or season to rain; it rained!

It rained—sky gave way, clouds started crashing into hills, charged particles of air fused themselves and transformed into tiny raindrops and rushed towards gravitating Reena. She commanded nature in all her glory; and nature answered—to provide a soothing sense of relief to her exasperated psyche and agitated soul, all elements lined up in perfect harmony until the rain washed away all the sins of the world, temporarily, allowing her to regain her balance and continue absorbing the vices that would be committed by men and women alike--until she felt she couldn't take it anymore, until she commanded the gods to revisit her in due time to cleanse her soul one more time.

The last time I was in New York, it almost rained. Many people dislike rain, especially those living in big cities whose personalities are already saturated by their immediate satisfaction, and anything that hinder upon their set schedule, they characteristically consider a nuisance, as if events too common in their lives once and again remind them of their ordinariness where, in one way or the other such become conflicting proposition, 'cause in one way or the other, the city dwellers are either there to completely lose themselves in a faceless crowd or to absorb all that is out there to create a whole different character and personality for themselves. However, very few explore the latter—take moment to really soak themselves in the surroundings and observe the transformation—external events continually acting on us to form and shape us in the way it desires, giving us almost no sense of free-will to determine our own course of action.

Last year Reena moved to Mumbai. She wanted to be with her family and spend rest of her time raising funds to educate children of slums. I thought I'd tag along with her, but I was too insecure to let myself go for the cause that was bigger than me. I wish a prefect world; but there are countless like me. Reena wished nothing, I don't think; but pretty much absorbed herself in many things. The news of Mumbai train blasts grips me in silent awe now. As I read the news, casualty of dead increase ever rapidly, scores of wounded—commuters, vendors, slum dwellers, students all perish in one of the seven or more makeshift graves.

In all the chaos and mayhem, there is no news of Reena, and why should there be—she is just one of the millions to lose in a monolithic metropolis. Last I spoke; she mentioned taking a local commuter train to her temporary office in central Mumbai. All day yesterday I scraped for any bit of information on those dead and wounded, but to no avail. The home ministry said they have officially tallied neither the numbers nor the names of the victims. As I nervously switch channels, I catch a correspondent holding an umbrella and giving details of the rescue work being carried out. It started raining in Mumbai, just after the blast or some due moment after. My agitated soul takes a deep sigh, 'the gods have attended to her again', I say to myself, in her most vulnerable times Reena wished it rained—down on her and everything she held dear. In her most susceptible times, Reena whispered, "I love walking in the rain, 'cause then no-one knows I'm crying".

Comments

February 7th, 2007

1 | Sheetal:

Great story, really revoking the soul.

July 10th, 2007

2 | excitement:

what kinda over romanticised wank on a stick is this?? trite, utterly pale, boiled chicken stuff.

but do try again. definitely try again.

July 18th, 2007

3 | General Public:

Hey excitement,

Care to expound on WHY you think this story is “romanticised wank on a stick”, not to mention “trite, utterly pale, boiled chicken stuff”? The writer has taken time and effort to pen this shit, so he might appreciate some productive criticism from an obviously superior intellect like yours? Help our brother out, man.

Pradip, your central metaphor of clouds/rain in the story finds its best, lyrical and, might I say, poetic expression in the paragraph that starts “It rained — sky gave way …”. That’s some good stuff, man.

Unfortunately, when one invests so much weight into a metaphor, the story gets rather “heavy” and predictable. Clouds (troubled emotions, inchoate pains, etc.) in this context could only lead to rain (release, renewal, etc.). Granted, you have cleverly and intelligently introduced elements into the metaphor to keep it from sliding into triteness (Reena commanding the elements and the elements responding is a nice touch), and you do a great job of coherently following the metaphor to its acutely painful end. I liked also the use of rain bringing so many disparate threads together. But still …

I guess what I am trying to say is that I’d use metaphors sparingly and not impose it on a story so baldly, so heavily. But what the fuck do I know?

One thing I most definitely did not like were the many confusing constructions. By way of example, check out the paragraph starting with “The last time I was in New York …”. The next sentence goes on for, I think, like six lines!! I got lost trying to navigate that looong sentence. Break it up a little, no? Give idiots like me a chance to digest things in reasonably short chunks.

More troubling, though, is your very first sentence (and I am sure you know how important those are!). I could not for the life of me figure out what the hell those “lenses” were initially. If it takes me so long to “get” the first sentence, do I want to keep going, was the thought that passed my mind. I’m glad I kept reading :). There are more of those kind of constructions throughout the story, which, again, drags it down a bit, but which are easy to fix, I think.

I enjoyed your piece, but keep it simple, relax, and don’t overlook the fundamental mechanics (prefect, for instance, should be perfect). Of course, I say this knowing fully well that writing is, in most cases, much more difficult than critiquing. In that regard, do forgive my presumptuousness.

Okay, was passing by, felt kind of talkative (very rare for me), and thought I’d leave behind a few markings of my visit. Sounds like bullshit now that I am re-reading what I have just written, but there you have it.

Wonderful new look, this site, congrats to whoever put in the work.

August 16th, 2007

4 | Mystichacker:

GP,

As the author is ‘indisposed’ at the moment, I — the head-honcho, nonetheless, would like to thank you for taking time to go through a rather lengthy, heavy, and predictable metaphor. Not only that, you have definitely pointed out some of the mundane redundancies that is present in the ‘story’. For that we are all grateful. Of course, I am being overtly generous here…

Trying to re-read it now, it does seem to me that the story — or at least the central event it revolves around, is almost as predictable as any bollywood genre. But, at the same time, I do see some genuine attempt made by the author to escape a rather traditional narrative by presenting a cumulative effect of loss — albeit in form heavily influenced by metaphor, I guess?

True, to imagine/fictionalize a good central theme is one thing; to be able to construct a flowing narrative that continuously captures reader’s imagination (clichÃ©), a totally different art form. Who knows how the ‘pomos’ do it?!

The para that lends to ‘The last time I was in New York â€¦’ is absolutely redundant. It seems to be pure anger flowing in letters. Perhaps the author was continually pissed-off at not being in the city when it rained.

I am going to stop here as I am purely speculating now — making the story worse than it actually is.

Anyway, it’s good to see you checking back. Yes, the site looks far better, and the pictures are truly touching.

August 17th, 2007

5 | Maverick:

Is it just a fiction or a true story???

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