Rain

India unfolds itself in little moments.

It was raining lightly so Melody, Rohit, Sohayl and I took special pleasure in our walk to the samosa store for our mid-morning tea. The light wind, the grey skies, the washed out scent keenly reminded my of the Pacific Northwest. Home. We bought and ate our samosas, with the rain still only dribbling on us. Across the street from the samosa store is a little strip of grass between the road and a wall, usually populated by fruit, vegetable, and tea wagons. Our current favorite tea seller, a boy of perhaps twelve was standing behind his wagon, a small wooden surface on iron wheels. He made us tea and we stood around the wagon, Rohit, Melody and I laughing at our conversation, Sohayl chatting with the boy in Hindi about the child's life. He was working the wagon because his mother was sick, and Sohayl invited him to the children's classes held at their house. The clouds suddenly unburdened themselves, and we stood uncaring in the rain. Vancouver. The heat rising from my tea, contrasted with the cool wet air, at once supplying a sense of warmth and security. At a moment like that, I could almost love India.

Global warming has hit India too of course. A few days ago the heaviest rain of my life struck, four months out of season for India. The youth I was with were comparing the roads to Venice, and the water fell through the office roof in once place. It was raining inside. When the rain comes early, and so strongly, it knocks all the mango tree flowers down. There won't be many mangos this year, and many farmers will have a hard time of it.