The First Rain

I crouched by the side of my mother, as she lay writhing on the cot. I frantically waved the cheap plastic hand held fan in her face, desperate to provide her some relief. Drops of perspiration had covered her dark forehead. I watched helplessly as her purple veins which were visible through her loose, wrinkled skin tensed with pain, threatening to burst out of her ailing body to set free her angered blood. As I placed my palm on her burning forehead, she clasped my arm, gasping for water. I left her side and stepped out of our hut to fetch water from the half filled pitcher that the villagers had left for us.



My father stood outside, his eyes fixed to the sky. The white sun stared back at him, laughing menacingly, pouring its hot white fire over his tiny frame. He had been standing there muttering prayers for three weeks, coming inside only at night when my mother called out to him after she had prepared the customary three chapattis, one for each of us. My mother would repeat the same hope-filled words to me and my father every night as we hungrily devoured the chapattis, “Once the rains come, our troubles will end. I'll cook potato stew for you.” My eyes would brighten at the thought of dipping a chapatti in potato stew before putting it in my mouth. My father would then say, “Don't you dream of prosperity. It is not meant for folks like us. Potato stew! Ha! Be thankful for the chapatti you have, for if the rains fail, we shall have nothing.” His voice was steady but sad, wizened by his decades. His words would scare me, and I would frantically pray to God, asking him to send us our saviour, the rain. Last week, my mother had fallen ill. She had collapsed on her way to the well, and the villagers who had seen her lying unconscious on the dusty road had brought her home. It's the heat, they had said, that had hit her. “Stroke” said someone else, as we felt her feverish skin. That day, my father and I spent hours fanning her burning body with dried leaves. Someone who had come to see her offered me the plastic fan, and I took it greedily, hoping that it would cure my mother. In the evening I made chapattis for my father, but he had refused to eat. I had seen fear in his eyes when he said “no” to food. There might be no rains this year, we might not have any food tomorrow, his sad eyes had conveyed. I tried to feed my mother as she lay on the cot, weakened by hunger, thirst and by the heat that had finally knocked her down. As my mother's fever refused to go, the next day my father had left her side and resumed his silent prayers outside our tiny home, refusing to come inside even at night.



Today however, things were slightly different. My father's eyes had that rare glint of hope as they scanned the sky. He was restless, I noticed as he shifted his feet. The earth on which he stood was yellow with pain. The deep cracks in the ground appeared to release angry fumes, threatening to burst out in rebellion against the cruel sun, spilling its pained blood over the heartless heavens. Just like my mother, I thought. I poured out a glass of water from the pitcher and was about to go back inside when my father let out an ecstatic shriek. He had spotted a cloud. I looked up, my heart racing as a dark cloud settled right on top of the blazing sun. The sky was slowly changing its contours: from smooth blue to soft, fluffy white to a mean grey. The disappearance of the sun had immediately transformed the merciless heat into a pleasant wind, thick with moisture that promised rain.



My father spread out his arms, embracing the first drops. He bowed his head, thanking the Lord, and then looked up joyously, as he savored the sight of his parched fields being rescued. I felt the rain drops fall on my head, trickle through my thick hair, mingling with my sweat, finally finding my face. I let out a loud whoop and was about to run inside to tell my mother, when she herself hobbled out slowly, still in pain, but delighted at the sight of rain. All's well, I thought. I broke into a maniacal run, unable to contain my joy. It was raining.



Mother will be alright now. Father will not refuse chapattis tonight. We will have sufficient food for the year. I raced up the narrow village street, feeling the burning dust transform into pleasant, scented slush that would cover the streets till the sun came out again in September. I ran madly, overjoyed at the drops, which by now had gained the sting of the persistent monsoon, as they beat my naked shoulders. The rain became still stronger, now blurring my vision, as I continued my crazed celebration.



I was blinded, first by the falling rain and then by the glint of a pair of lights so strong that I thought the sun had doubled and had descended on the earth to destroy my joy. I continued to run, determined to fight the devil charging towards me. I will not let the evil one take away my happiness, my food, my rain, screamed my heart. I felt something hit my stomach, forcing me back. I fell down, but raised my arms, trying to grasp the rain for help. As my head hit the ground, my mind went blank. The man who had been driving the car stuck his head out of the window and gave my hollow face, my thin, unwashed limbs a long look. Every detail of my appearance stood starkly in contrast with his own, rich self. “Some poor village boy. Would've died of hunger or disease anyways. Shouldn't cause us any trouble.” He muttered to his companion seated beside him and drove away. I lay there on the street, my open eyes staring at the rain, as it mockingly poked my broken body. The treacherous drops continued to beat down my face, trickling to the ground, mixed with my sweat and my blood.