Then suddenly the chilled rain poured out. Every summer end Babuli would ask God to bring a good rain, a good climate, and will wait rather painstrikenly till the first rain of the year falls. He needed it bring with it a calming blanket of coolness around him and he very well knew that it would never forget to bring that eastern wind; but this year he did not expect so much of it - just enough to fly his shawl from his shoulder back and forth. It was rain that added color to the much dull, inactive and lonely life of Babuli.
It was rain that added color to the much dull, inactive and lonely life of Babuli.
When it started to rain, the 73 year old Babuli whom his neighbour addresses as “very active and cheerful even at 73” took his 50 year old umbrella and set forth as usual in the rain to the library. But mind it, this neighbour of his, had never bothered to peep through his window to watch him just dozing off in the swinging chair early 9 in the mornings, the days the sun would beat its heat through. And for the umberlla it was as inactive as Babuli, with just a small hole towards the end of one of its tips, and some rough patches of grey in some folds; in its 50 year old life it has retained more of its healthy nature.
What else need to be told about Babuli? Every one knew that he would never reach the library until the rain stops. He just loves it - the rain.
And how wonderful was it to gaze at the drops of water dripping from the ends of the umbrella, drop by drop and the big drop of rain falling on the watery muddy ground and splashing its way through. And then the squirrel would jump tree to tree, on its way back home; the crow would rest lonely on an electric pole with its wet feathers and wriggle just once or twice. Slowly the frog starts croaking, drumming its tongue to add music(?) to its song. The flashlight lightning waiting for the hero to enter the stage, the pleasantness of the cool smell of dry ground - the one that of great relief.
And when everything cools down, it settles calmly. Even the watch would tick aloud - that perfect silence. But sitting in your room and listening, you can hear, somewhere the rain water breaks the bunds and flows into huge canals; slow drips falling from the roof on to the ground; the weak croak of the frogs; the shrills of some far away cicadas …
Babuli wanted to live for 100 years, so that he could see a hundred years of downpour, especially the ones that break the summer heat; for then he would walk with his dying umbrella in the rain through the Chowkidar lane into the library.