Introduction
I wrote this in 1990 and found it on the web recently when going through the archives of Usenet. I had lost it while changing so many computers in all these years, so i was happy to see it again. I copied it back to the hard disk and decided to change nothing. Well, that is not entirely true, I changed the name of the character. It is sort of a pointless story with no clear anchorpoint. Perhaps I would have written it differently today. Some of the actual escriptions of events and places are true and it is how they happened. The rest of it, emotions and the connections I make (and it is a stretch I admit) are just fiction. It is just interesting rereading it after 17 years, just to remember how things were. So here it is, in its original form, a pointless story. As far as literary fiction goes, I would file this under Don't-quit-your-day-job category.
He Visits When It Rains
Sitting here waiting for my meeting, I am drawn to the ever-increasing feeling of desperation. This depressive episode started only a few days ago when the seasonal rains began. I have been battling these moods for years since I was fifteen. I still remember that warm-afternoon journey by boat to Elephanta caves with oldman Nanchibhai that I think of as the turning point of my happy life. I was sitting by the window close enough to touch the spray of seawater as the boat 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 slyly arouse 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 shirtsleeves.
I was barely out of my teens then. Even so, somehow I felt a great pity for her. She did try to look cheerful inspite of the lost-expression and the dark alienating clouds around her eyes. Their son, a tall child with a lot of determination, practiced jumping from the cracked wooden seat to the floor relentlessly. He was totally lost in the quest for perfection and was oblivious to the battle between disinterest and desire around him.
It was the first time that I realized I was depressed. The sight of the gray ocean around me, the gentle rocking motion and the silent disinterest of the passengers all brought home the lucidity of that feeling. Forever, I remember that moment with that family sitting across from me as the page-mark in the book of my life when depression first struck me. I could feel the chill in the air as it began to rain without warning. I detested the rain for the first time, as it played little beats on the tin-roof and poked the ocean surface with thousands of water needles. Nanchibhai must have been surprised as I wiped tears off my face while pretending to be wiping the raindrops away. But he said nothing.
Years later, sitting by the window last night, 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 skyline underlined the feeling of complete helplessness I felt at that time. The raindrops had collected under the window as small puddles on the concrete, where pearly bubbles formed and broke as each new drop fell and mixed into it.
This was my mood as I had my first meeting with Pink Floyd. His real name was Floyd Almeida but everyone just called him Pink Floyd, a name that he seemed to take to with some enthusiasm. He walked-in armed with a happy smile, determined to break the spell of sadness around me, or so it seemed.
"Puck", he called with a loud voice clear of uncertainties as he walked in. We had spoken over the phone and we knew of each other well from common contacts. I gave him a faint smile. Without looking for a particular reaction, he continued," I am Floyd, 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 memory of the dark-skinned Indian woman on the boat with her white lover. He injected some soothing comfort of warmth to beak up the self-flagellating reverie I was in.
And that is how the friendship grew between us. Even in the fleeting moments
we sometimes passed each other through the damp corridor where algae drew green
patterns, he never failed to challenge my sadness with his smile.
As partners in the field experiments we started to travel together. Often we would visit small mining towns and abandoned coal mineshafts together. Most of these towns had very little life left in them an evenings brought nothing but boredom. We developed the habit of walking around under the blue vast skies and the desolate landscapes looking for interesting features and abandoned buildings.
We were in a small town that had been an army base for the soldiers. In the evening, tired of the hard work in the heat and the dust and the low-pitched humming of mosquitoes in the summer heat, we decided to take our usual aimless stroll. The walk took us to an abandoned church and a graveyard around it. The light had already faded and the white clapboard exterior of the church stood like a ghost against the dark Midwestern summer sky affixed with a million stars that came out of nowhere. Without even glancing at each other, we walked inside pushing the rusted gates open.
"Janet Nicholson", the inscription on the first marker read, "Born July 12, 1793 , Died September 4, 1812". All the inscriptions that we read by the faint torch light indicated that the gravesite was indeed full of those who departed young. We walked in complete silence through the unkempt space careful enough not to trip and fall. There was nothing we could say to each other. Sometimes silence has all the words you need. It took me a while to realize that the water drops that wet my eye lashes were indeed warm unseasonable prairie rain. The summer rain smelled like moths and sounded like a funeral songs of crickets. Water drops fell on Janet's grave with precision washing away accumulated dirt and grime, not wasting its sorrow. The rest of the night passed in a dream of crickets, moths and young women resting in coffins.
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 we drove through the night. Though we promised each other to travel together again in the near future, it was never to be.
Shortly, Floyd left school to pursue a career totally unrelated to his degree and I gradually lost touch with him. At that time, entangled in a relationship that brought golden fireflies 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 again after the sunflowers suddenly withered and the fireflies lost their fire. I wandered in memories trying to seek refuge in the past and in revisited old friendships that appeared like shadows in the mist. It was time to graduate from undergraduate school. Nostalgia forced me to spend all my time with old friends, killing moments over tea or beer that was light enough to be tears or water.
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 every one 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.
Floyd asked me to accompany him to the gate as he took his leave. He was returning to his office in Nebraska and the chances were bleak that we would meet again, at least for a long time. 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. There were students passing us by with backpacks and books. 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 looked designed, as if an invisible director had yelled “action” out of our earshot. 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.
That night, it rained all the time. The green prairies looked tired and bedraggled. There were puddles but no music of frogs. The giant cross, planted in front of the Baptist church, looked washed and solemn as I passed it on my way home. The street
lamps had tears on them.
In the student-common lounge, I stopped to shake water from my clothes which were sticking to my skin, cold and uncomfortable. In the dark corner I saw an Indian lady sitting on a suitcase, next to her white companion. It appeared that she had just arrived on the scene. She was in her early thirties and had a beehive for hair. Her companion was wiry with alabaster skin, as he sat in the shadows with a nonchalant expression. She kept pushing her hair away from her sad plump face with an air of annoyance.
I started as a feeling of déjà vu returned to me. I expected the rains to visit with the needles of pain any time soon. I wanted to weep. I hastened to my room as the man put his arms around his companion and laughed at a private joke.
When the darkness came like a silent intruder, I lost myself to yesterdays and to unrepentant guilt. 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.
