…OF rains, drains, and sundry pains
By Neel Anil Panicker
Woke up to the steady drum roll of raindrops pouring down slanting rooftops. I clambered out of bed and peered down from the balcony only to find the streets covered in white ever flowing slush like there were some iridescent sheets of gunfire.
Outside, the roads had turned into snakes that slithered in and out of nonexistent lanes and bylanes that are chock a bloc with all manner of silt and slush.
Flush, flush it down, shouts a man hoarsely, as water and filth make inroads into bedrooms into frontyards, even rooms.
Flush it down with what? I wonder. Well, not a bad idea, but then isn’t it a tad too early in the morning to uncork that whisky bottle that’s eyeing me lasvicisuly all through the pitter patter, singing a silent lullaby, awakening in me stillborn desires, desires of calling it off, taking the lazy, easy way out and simply putting my feet up and drinking away, what else but all the water.
I crane my neck and see school kids wading their way through waist high water and then a little further you see them all, the men and women who need to step out of their homes come rain or shine. I see them brave the ever maddening drizzle, their faces and bodies dripping with pools of water mixed with the sweat and slime that is the bane of city life and salute at the indomibatble spirit of mankind, a spirit that refuses to die or wither but instead resurges itself with greater vigour and strength every time Nature decides to unleash its fury on Man.
Inspired, I too, haul myself into the rain soaked streets, my plastic covered feet feeling the sodden wetness of Mother Earth, slowly but bravely inching their way through this cesspool of life.
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