I stood at the Carter Road Promenade. Sprinting was never my forte but at least I hoped to jog that morning. But like many other mornings it was not to be. We woke up late, made our monthly ritualistic trip to Crepe Station and suddenly the rains came down. But that day it was a strange rain. It rained all around us but not on us. We stood and stood and waited for the rains to hit us but the drops wanted to tantalize us, make us want them even more. Somewhere in the horizon the sun was playing hide and seek, peeking at us from behind the clouds. The clouds on the other hand were in the mood for changing their colours every now and then and the entire canvas of the universe was painted and repainted again and again.
And then they came; making everyone run for cover. We sat in the Coffee Day, still my favourite
Spot in Mumbai on a Sunday morning as the spears from heaven hit the ground. The battle had begun. The first arrows had been fired and they struck the ground hoping to drive life into them. But the world they once knew had been changed. The ground had given way to asphalted roads, the earth to black tar. Again and again their attack was pushed back as the world watched.
Then suddenly they stopped as soon as they had come. Perhaps the futility of it all hit them. No one below cared for them. No body remembered that in a world full of dirt and squalor the arrows of fortune decided the fate of the world below.
After the rains will come the new life. But what if the rains stop halfway?