A Story

Remnants of a Rainy Day

I still have the umbrella, even though I do not think I have ever used it. I have had it for more than three years now, and even though it is tattered and torn, something prevents me from throwing it out.

Instead, I let it hang by the entrance of my apartment. Sometimes, an unusually keen observer – usually a woman I never hope to meet again – spots it, and exclaims in a pretentious manner, as a final act of seduction, perhaps, “My, what an interesting looking thing…”

I choose to ignore such apparently excited views, and just let these insignificant women out of the door, and try to forget the fact that I had spent a night, or a few hours, with them, sometimes hoping they will forget too. Most of the time, though, I don’t really care if they do or not. I have other more trivial matters to deal with, you see.

But after they leave, I realise that the emptiness I am constantly trying to overcome, to fill, has never really left. And when I look at the umbrella, I am reminded that, in all honesty, things really haven’t changed as I once hoped. Although the present is now somewhat bearable, it is tomorrow that I am still afraid of.

But enough of my pseudo-intellectual bantering. I am anxious to relive the once-glorious past. Which was, literally, in another country. The fabulous US of A. In the centre of the world – New York City, the big apple as it is often vulgarly referred to by many an uncouth individual. A city where I lived for most of my adult life, where I led a life that many envied – a so-called “successful” life, with a coveted apartment in Manhattan, a swanky car and a happening job in IT.

Oddly enough, despite all its glory, I had just had enough of NYC. It wasn’t just September 11, it was everything. I was tired, exhausted, of everything… and everyone. Life had become a monotonous and uninspiring, a negative sort of affair, filled with the same people who talked about the same things at the same places over the same drinks.

And the celestial city, which I called home, and loved more than life itself was beginning to gnaw rabidly at my insides, making me even more cynical. I wanted to run to somewhere far, far, away. And rather than just thinking of escaping, I decided to actually do it. I decided to end a life. Mine. My life in New York.

I made a decision: to move. Far, far away. Where there would be no more reminders of the past, where the shadows of yesterday would not brim into today, where I could start anew, forget the mistakes I made, and attempt to take control of my life instead of being a mere spectator.

Surprisingly, ending a life wasn’t as difficult as I had thought. Perhaps death isn’t as difficult as you’d imagine, perhaps it is better to end it by yourself, rather having death thrust upon you.

Of course, there was the matter the fond farewells to deal with. It wasn’t that hard saying goodbye I realised – all you had to do was follow some insincere hugs and kisses with comments such as, “we’ll stay in touch,”, “of course I will come back…” and even, “I’ll will always love you…”. (Of course, getting some nice goodbye presents was the best part.)

The more difficult aspect of leaving ending a life, in all honesty, was getting rid of the all the things I had accumulated in the process of staying true to the good old material American way of life.

Being computer savvy – hey, I was an IT yuppie after all – I had taken pictures of my many belongings, such as the furniture and electronic items, placed them on Craig’s list, in an attempt to sell them. Within a week, most of the possessions I had accumulated, each of which I had bought myself with careful thought and affection, were sold. And I managed to raise a decent amount of cash.

Only the smaller television, and some knick knacks remained.

That evening, it was a Friday I think, the phone rang, as I was about to hit the shower. I instantly figured out it wasn’t anyone I knew by the thick, Indian accent, one that stressed on the T’s and D’s. (“Do you hawe a Telewision for sale?”).

I made an appointment for 7:00 pm (I had a drinks ‘thing’ at 8), explained the directions to my house, and figured I had a deal.

7:30 and no one in sight. Damn Indians, I thought. Never on time. That’s why all us South Asians have such a bad name… we can’t ever be punctual. I peered outside the window, as if willing the man in question to appear instantaneously.

It looked like it was drizzling outside… a sort of unexpected, soothing shower, when you can tell that Summer is flirting with you, telling you that Spring, with its constant Wintry showers is about to leave, but not without letting your hopes down many a time.

I poured myself a stiff drink, lit a cigarette and figured I’d wait another ten minutes. Just in case the curry smelling fool would arrive. I needed that TV out, and money in my pocket so I could splurge at a bar tonight, and maybe even get a hit of X in the bargain if I could manage it.

Just then there was a knock on the door. God, didn’t the guy see the damned doorbell… or hadn’t he even heard of the invention of electricity? Damn Indian.

I chugged down the drink… whoa… and opened the door.

I had been mistaken, it wasn’t just a drizzle; it had been pouring with rain, judging by the way the street looked. Hues of pink sprawled across the blue sky, and the golden rays of the setting sun seeping through the clouds. No rain now. Just endless pools of water on the ground, attempting to mirror the sky’s cerulean mysticism.

In front of me stood two creatures, dressed in cheap, transparent raincoats, sharing an umbrella, looking like something even the dingiest cat wouldn’t have dragged in. Not even in any one of its nine lives.

The man was dressed in jeans and T-shirt that was tucked in a little oddly, showing off a bit of a paunch, while his much younger sidekick sported a well-used shalwar kameez. Her hair seemed oiled and was tied in a tight plait. With what looked second hand trainers. They were holding hands and as soon as I glanced down, they pulled away almost immediately, as though they had been engaging in public orgy.

“Yes,” I barked. “You here to see the TV?”

“Yes,” smiled the man, showing off his white teeth.

“You’re late. I’ve been waiting for more than an hour.”

The woman apologised. “We are sorry we are late, but the bus got delayed.” Her accent was less pronounced than her man-friend’s, although she spoke in a rather halting, sing-song manner.

Why didn’t you just get a friggin’ cab? Don't you think I have anything better to do than wait for two curry-smelling Indians who will probably not even buy the damned TV ‘cos they are so friggin’ cheap? I was going to ask. But thankfully, for once, I stopped myself in time. Before I said things I regretted much, much later. Before I said things that I couldn’t possible take back, things I would have to live with for the rest of my life, even after it ended.

I walked towards the lounge, and could hear cheap rubber soles squeaking on my well polished wooden floors. “Here’s the TV,” I said in a purposely booming manner, pointing towards the object in question, as if assuming that the dim-witted duo wouldn’t be able to identify it themselves.

“It’s in mint condition.”

“Does it have a remote control sir?” asked the man. Ah, he’s not all that dense after all. What’s with the sir, anyway? Should I ask him to wipe my shoes now?

“Yeah. Somewhere. There’s so much shit here, I’ll have to look for it if you give me a second.”

Both of them literally died on the spot, especially the woman, as I said shit. I rolled my eyes and ignored their shudders, and started looking around for the damned remote control. Miraculously, I had actually put it in its place, on the centre table. Turning the TV on, I passed it to the woman. Unfortunately, the TV turned on the last channel that I had been viewing, which happened to be the playboy channel. The woman turned crimson, while the man, half-tempted to watch, merely averted his gaze.

For some reason, even I felt a little uncomfortable, and swiftly snatched back the remote and changed the channel to something more respectable. So uncomfortable, that when they asked me how much it would cost them, I quoted a lower one than I planned.

“Well, are you okay with the pricing?” I asked.
Almost instinctively, they looked at each other. Apparently they communicated without words.

“Yes, yes, we want it,” they said in unison.

“I can call my friend now and he can pick it up it that’s okay,” said the man.

“Yea sure its fine. But I gotta go soon… can he hurry up? Or will he be late as well?”

“No, no, let me call him now. Can I use your phone?” (No cell phone, I noticed)

I was tempted to point out the grammatical error in the sentence he had just uttered (may I use your phone?), but managed to stop myself in time and pointed towards the cordless.

He called his friend, murmured something quickly in a language I didn’t understand, and then told me his friend would be there in ten minutes. (“He works nearby, and he has a big car.”)

Then came a pause. Not being the type to make hypocritical small talk, I poured myself another drink, but was nice enough to ask them if they wanted one too, to celebrate their idiot box.

“No, no, it’s still early,” said the man, while his wife silently appraised the remaining things in the apartment, gazing longingly at my trendy kitchen.

“She is new to America,” explained the husband, “She is staying home these days, but will soon get a job. But she gets bored, so I am thinking we should be buying a television set for her.”

“Good thinking I said,” obviously disinterested. I glanced towards the woman, who was now looking at the spice rack.

“Oh you keep zeera, and haldi and dhania!” she exclaimed.

“Well yes, whenever I feel like a desi meal.”

“Oh you seem so American… where are you from?”

“Um, Pakistan I guess.”

“You are going back there?”

“Well not really back there… never really lived there.”

“Oh you will be so happy. Your mother will take care of you and family is family. These Americans are so cold and mean. Always wanting to be quiet and clean and neat. No fun. Not one of them plays in the rain, you know. All of them have umbrellas.”

Apparently, this woman didn’t take much time in opening the floodgates of woes against America.

“Why did you come here then?”

A pause. “I got married.”

The woman nearly blushed, not in an annoying and idiotic way like a Bollywood heroine, but in a demure one.

Her husband then glanced at her pride. “She is adjusting,” he said, “she has learnt how to use the washing machine already, even though it has only been a week since she came here. And I am teaching her how to use the cash register at the 7-11 where I work, so she can get a job too.”

Wow what ambition.

There was something about the couple that I didn’t understand. Maybe it was because they seemed to be so happy, despite not having much. (I mean, no cell phone, no cab fare and no TV up till now…). Or maybe it was because despite the fact that they weren’t in the best of places they were adjusting and living in their own little world, instead of going all out and trying to adjust like many of the immigrants that America houses. (Maybe I was one of them too…?)

Maybe it was the alcohol, or god knows what, but I told them to help themselves to the stuff in the kitchen, the spice rack, the Tupperware. Expensive items that I had brought, being brand conscious and all. I had thought that I would take them with me, but something told me the couple would need them more.

“Oh, see, Nikhil! This is how we Asians are to each other. We help each other out when we can!” The woman excitedly began to collect the stuff in a shopping bag.

The doorbell rang (no more knocks… maybe the friend was a little more with it.)

Within minutes they were gone, but not after thanking me profusely, calling me brother “bhaiya” and what not. I poured myself yet another drink, called a cab and headed towards the bar, washing the whole incident off me… for that time, at least.

But a few days later, as I began packing the life that I had built all by myself into a few boxes, I came across the couple’s umbrella. They must have missed it, but chosen to let me have it.

It hangs, as I said before, near the entrance of my apartment. It has been more than three years since I got it, that rainy day in May, and sometimes, it smells like the rain, promising new, clean beginnings that can allow you can start anew, to forget the past, and be comfortable with the thought of tomorrow.

I think I’ll let it hang there for a little while longer. Or maybe I will throw it away. It is, after all, tattered and torn.

I’m not sure though.