the rainy morn...

It was quite early in the morning. And, aberrantly, especially during the rains, I was up, wide awake. I went to the balcony and looked over. The weather was typical Indian june-to-september —the kind that is described in the geography books. The rain wasn’t heavy but the drizzling was relentless. The morning was pretty cold. I wished I could somehow conjure a sizzling hot cup of coffee but alas I was after all a “muggle”. I wrapped myself with my, still warm from my sleep, blanket and sat by the window looking outside wondering what the people in America might be doing at that moment. It must be the beginning of night for them. What could they have had for dinner? I could’ve thought of Indians and India too but the human brain has a history of being weird at the most unassuming times. And at the moment I was a victim to its bizarre-activity syndrome that leaves so many of us so many times with a miscellany of long forgotten and mysterious memories and emotions. Soon, I decided I was unnecessarily acting like those clichéd poets who stood by the rains to write those equally corny poems—the ones the lovers, who relate their brain’s prowess to those of the ‘Dark Ages’, still include in their oh-so-lovely perfumed love letters. I began feeling hungry so I guessed it was time I nourish my body which grudgingly endured the morning chill. Being a Hindu (and being at home) I can have breakfast only after I have the Morning Bath. It was still too cold for me to undress but I knew I had to if I wanted any breakfast. I somehow managed to but had to face the ordeal of the initial spurt of the deathly cold water of the shower. I cursed the existence for the torture it had just inflicted on me and as redemption, hot water, god bless it, finally touched my skin. I immediately returned to the world I had just left by the window. But I was no more in America now but in a plush office, I don’t know where, wearing an expensive suit. I am the richest man in the world and also the most successful businessman in the history of mankind. I have recently won the Nobel Prize for literature and also the Booker for my all time bestselling book. I am also being considered for the Peace prize for being the greatest ever philanthropist. I am also the prime minister and have just made a call to the American president asking him to mend his ways or face a war. The American congratulates me for my recent win at the Wimbledon, the first Indian ever to achieve this feat. But my bathroom geyser did not realize that I was such an important man, and determined that I had had enough of the blissful hot water. I zapped back into the reality with no regrets. There were rats running in my stomach (I am exceedingly sorry for the cheesy translation) that drove me out of the bathroom and helped me get dressed as fast as it was possible for me without hurting my vitals. Just as I reached for some food I realized the grimmer “reality” that I was a mere mortal that hadn’t done much in the last few days except sleep and eat. But with the first bite of that delicious dosa I decided to give the Americans some more time to rectify their baneful foreign policies before I declare a war.