11:37 PM, August 20th, Indiranagar
I didn’t realize how beautiful it was. I don’t blame myself — we seldom realize the enormity of a moment when we are living it. Memory will always be a magnifying glass, and, I guess, our only job is to collect. Collect as much as we can — sights, sounds, songs in our head. Collect without making collection a task, collect microscopically. The name of the person the palm trees oddly remind you of; the feeling of having rain-water shaken off on you by your furry little, sky-eyed cat; the aroma of dosas frying from your landlady’s room downstairs.
Ab ke sawan ghar aaja. What can I say that will make you manifest anywhere else on this planet? No, not Bangalore rains in general — but, the first Bangalore rain-shower. The one that made the jasmines bloom, the one that started the story. The one I see from the rearview mirror of my auto when the skies darken over Domlur flyover. The one that makes me linger mid-shiver, as though caught in an invisible hug, on cold Koramangala nights. The one that undoes the threads of calm over Ulsoor Lake, and spills the yarns of sunset all over the road. The memory of that night in late August, that has made itself known, every time since, every time it rained in Bangalore.
Nothing else happened that night. A pot of coffee was brewed, my Spotify playlist was stuck at Lagori’s River Song, the cat took refuge under the sofa, and I called my aunt to tell her that I’ve had a nice week.
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What makes it difficult to long for it now, in a city far away, is that I end up longing for a cup of coffee, or a song, or thundering clouds — all of which I can find anywhere, have anywhere. It’s the same as looking for a lost love in another man, because they all have eyes, they all have hands, they all know how to smile.
In the end, I’m happy that I could love so many intangible things so much. That something as unassuming as a rocking chair swaying gently, or a stack of diaries in a wall nook, or the colour of the sun in old curtains can build something so large, so poignant — a way of life, a phenomenon of nature.
Spotify listeners, you may listen to my playlist from that night here.
Written as part of a weekend prompt by Broke Bibliophiles Bangalore. You can read all contributions on ‘Rain’ here.
