A rain is waiting to fall for me by Sahith Shetty
A rain is waiting to fall for me, from the edges of store awnings, from the thin branches of trees, from the tips of black umbrellas. It has been seventy six years, and my rain is yet to arrive. Often, as I turn a corner on a crowded street, I look at the clouds that hang so low I can touch them with the back of my hand. Is the rain for me, I wonder, or is it for someone else? If a flower falls on the top of a car, the rain is for me. If a flower swirls down and breaks off its petals on the asphalt, the rain is for someone else. If the shadow of the buildings face south, the rain is for me. If the shadow moves with the passing vehicles, the rain is for someone else. If the road curves to the right, the rain is for me. If the road drops dead on a blind alley, the rain is for someone else. For all these years, I have waited for it to come, in lobbies of luxury hotels, in window seats of airplanes, in balconies of derelict apartments. A rain has fallen for everyone else, a flight attendant on her way to another country, a window cleaner balancing himself on a scaffold, a diver looking up from the dark depths of a sea. It has fallen for everyone else but me. I have waited for too long and so I will for years and years to come. Minutes and hours slip out from under my feet as I stand tiptoe, watching a drop of rain suspended from the eaves of my house. It quivers and dances, and then at once it lets go and falls on the shoulder of my jacket. It meanders down the sleeves, leaving its dotted trails behind. The rain is for someone else.
Sahith Shetty is a content writer from Bangalore, India.
photo by: Anandu Vinod