The Rains

The road was jam packed, the rain pouring down and the weather humid as hell. The auto I was in had been paralysed, it seemed – four metres in four minutes. This was made all the worse since my house was only a hundred metres away but I had no umbrella. And so I was stuck in the auto in the traffic in the god-forsaken rain.

I’ve never liked the rains. They are needlessly wet, pointlessly muddy and noisomely stale. They are by far my least favourite season. Unseasonal downpours are even worse. The auto moved another few metres.

This was so idiotic.

I paid the driver, put my cell, papers, watch and everything inside my bag, made sure all the zips were closed, took a deep breath and ran out of the auto towards my apartment complex. Two seconds later, I’m wet to the core of my being. Five seconds later, I’m thinking this was a big mistake. Ten seconds later, I narrowly miss colliding into a strolling auntyji. Fifteen seconds later, there’s a stitch in my ribs. Twenty-five seconds later, my foot lands in a puddle and there’s mud-stains all over my pants. Thrity-five seconds later, I’m on my knees panting in the foyer of my building – completely wet. I get up and walk over to the elevators. Closed. Why? No electricity. Fuck. I’d have to climb twenty flights of stairs now. I definitely hate the rains.

I open the door to my house, leave my shoes outside, carefully place my bag and myself just inside the door, close the door and quickly start to take everything off of me. The glasses come off first. The tie. The shirt. The pants. The underwear. I pick up the wet clothes and walk stark naked into the house. My wife comes out of the bedroom, dressed in a bathrobe, hair bunched up in a towel. She looks at me, goes into the bathroom and brings out a towel. I dump my wet clothes in the washing-machine and start drying myself off with the towel.

“I hate the rains,” I tell her.

“I know,” she says sympathetically and whisks away into the kitchen to get me and herself a coffee. Sufficiently dry, I tie the towel around my waist and walk into the kitchen where she hands me a warm cup of coffee.

“The roads are muddy, shit-water overflows from the gutters and it’s muggy.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” she says and quietly take another sip of her coffee. She looks up at me with a bemused twinkle in her eye as the coffee mug covers her face.

“What?!” I ask knowing well that look.

“You’re being a pessimist again,” she adds simply. “And as your wife, I’m reminding you not to be. That’s all.”

“I’m not being a pessimist! There’s nothing good about these rains. If there is show me.”

She walks out of the kitchen and into our bedroom and into the balcony. I follow her. The balcony is obviously also wet. “Look, the balc…” I start to tell her but she shush-es me. “Shut up! Close your eyes and listen.”

One thing you should know about me. I listen when shushed. Especially when it’s my wife doing it. So I close my eyes and listen. There’s the honking of the traffic below, the low roll of the engines. The pitter-patter of the raindrops hitting the metallic bodies of the ACs. Some birds cooing here and there.

“I listened,” I say and open my eyes. My wife looks at me expectantly with those big, gorgeous eyes that I hate to disappoint. “I heard the car, the rain and the birds.”

“And?” she asks me, a bit bossily.

“And nothing. I still don’t like it,” I mumble feeling like the kid whose homework excuse is being swiftly disregarded by his strict teacher.

She shakes her head, takes a sip of her coffee. “You’re hopeless, you know that? How can you not enjoy this? The weather is not warm, the sun’s not beating us down. Low rolls of thunder, quick flashes of lightning lighting up the entire sky! It’s damn near fantastic, Samir. And, there’s the smell. Petrichor. Sweet, lusty, muddy petrichor. And the rhythm of the raindrops. It’s nature’s symphony, you idiot. And even if all of that isn’t enough? You’re here with me, drinking hot coffee at the end of a very tiring week.” You huff, take another sip and look out the balcony.

I’ve always believed that my wife is most beautiful when she tries so hard to see the good in things. She has often told me that it’s not “trying”. The good in things is always there. You just need to not be a prick. And that’s what I love about her. That’s what makes me crazy for her – her goodness. “You’re right,” I tell her. “About one thing.”

“What?”

“It is good to be here with you and your delicious coffee,” I say and raise my mug to her.

She rolls her eyes, rubs the towel on her head vigorously and then takes it off and hangs it up on the clothesline.

I’ve also always believed that the sexiness of any woman is instantaneously doubled by just-dried wet hair. There’s a fine line here, that I am talking about but that is exactly where my wife was at the moment. And she had just become so much the sexier for it.

I place my mug down and take a step towards her. “I mean it,” I say. “I love that you love the rains. I love that you don’t mind I hate the rains. I love that you want me to love the rains. But, most of all, I just love you.” And I take another step, and place my lips on hers. “Very much”, I say and put my arms around her.

She puts her arms around me and we kiss deeply. I lower my lips to her neck and she arches. My arms slide up her waist. She pulls my head back to her mouth and we resume our impassioned kissing. When, finally, we are both completely out of breath, she turns around without a word, takes my hands in hers and places them around her and leans back against me, cocooned safely inside my arms.

I’m still flushed and slightly dizzy from all the making-out. I definitely feel like wanting more. And so, I make my next move. “I like the rains so far,” I tell her.

She shushes me.


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