Rain Drops are Falling on my Head
Today marked week three of relocation to Karachi from
Houston. My family comprising my wife and two young children, aged
eleven and six, respectively, had finally taken the plunge. We had moved back
irrespective of the predominantly discouraging comments of well wishers in both
cities – their basic contention being that it was not the ‘right time’ to move
to Karachi given the volatility, insecurity and unpredictability inherent in
that city.
Initially, my rambly writings had helped me tremendously in settling down, or at least that’s how it felt. Each week I had attempted to write on something related to Karachi that could be compared and contrasted with Houston.
As I had mentioned in a previous entry of the Karachi-Houston diaries, finding something to write about was not always easy. I would scratch my head aplenty and if that didn’t help then I would beseech the muses, more in my heart now, to reveal to me my next writing mission.
That morning, I had walked out on to the balcony of the apartment, my temporary abode in Karachi. I looked at the dark clouds gathering far above me. The monsoon weather, in full swing over the past few weeks, had not entirely declared itself vis-à-vis a proper deluge. Although I was used to severe rainstorms in Houston, the sporadic monsoon-based drizzle in Karachi was not serious enough to write home about.
Lost in thought about the raining habits of the two cities, the strengthening rain brought me out of my reverie. And then the unthinkable happened: within seconds a mere drizzle had declared itself as a rainstorm to reckon with. I was unused to such rain in Karachi or perhaps I had forgotten Mighty Monsoon.
Concurrent with the ferocious lightning and thunder, I heard the muse speak out.
“Thou shalt write about rain”.
And exactly then, with nature’s orchestra reaching a crescendo, the electricity in the apartment went off.
“Drats! What do I do now?” I asked the muse, but there was no response. The problem was that backup one, the battery-powered entity that enabled a few ceiling fans and electric lights could only do so for a few hours. At the speed the fan performed and the meager light that the bulbs generated was a fair indicator that the backup power was insufficient for internet connectivity. Adding insult to injury, power backup number two, the traditional generator that ran on petrol, did not automatically kick in as it was meant to. I had no idea how to troubleshoot it.
Completely in the dark inside and ravaged by the deluge outside, I let agitation rule my mind.
“This never happened in Houston during the fiercest of rainstorms, except when Allison, Katrina, Rita, Ike, and the likes, came knocking on our doors – but then they were category three or more hurricanes”. I complained aloud to the children.
They also chimed in about the lack of anything interesting to do during the blackout due to the bad weather outside.
It was then that I had my epiphany. I suddenly recalled that years ago, while I was more of a carefree child, I would drop all indoor activities and actually go outside to enjoy the rain. That was the case for most children in general: the neighborhood ones as well as the street urchins. No one was barred entry into the monsoon dance.
Looking around I saw mostly children and a few elderly people on
the rooftops. Looking down I saw many more children in the streets splashing
around in the newly created rivulets and mini-lakes. Overall, the youngest and
the eldest seemed most attuned to the pleasures of the wondrous rain. A few
enthusiastic dogs had joined in the frolicking too. In my fifteen years spent
in Houston I had never come across such a spectacle, although the rains there
were much more frequent and year-round compared to Karachi. There the young and
old Houstonians went about their business regardless of rain, sadly ignoring it
in the process. Maybe that was simply a pragmatic and mechanical approach to
life that the United States is well known for. Or perhaps Mighty Monsoon has a
magical effect on those few Karachiites that really know how best to
revel when the heavens pour.
I suggested to the children that we go up to the rooftop, since we were privileged enough to access it, being occupants of the topmost apartment. Thinking we would be alone there, we were surprised that the door leading to the rooftop was ajar. What surprised me even more: three completely drenched people sitting at a makeshift table. The most expressive of them, seemingly an octogenarian, guffawed when he saw us emerge, threw us a high five and then went back to his animated conversation. Being outside on the rooftop chatting with others, completely oblivious to the rainfall, seemed like the most natural activity to the geriatric trio. I think the children and I derived a great deal of pleasure from this brief interaction. It validated our need to play freely on the rooftop in the downpour, drenched to our souls, and in doing so to enjoy the moment for all it’s worth.
What happened after the torrent had exhausted itself on Karachi, with roads quickly becoming impassable, sewage overflowing, electric wires falling into bodies of water, mosquitoes spreading infections, and so on, will be a story for another day.
Initially, my rambly writings had helped me tremendously in settling down, or at least that’s how it felt. Each week I had attempted to write on something related to Karachi that could be compared and contrasted with Houston.
As I had mentioned in a previous entry of the Karachi-Houston diaries, finding something to write about was not always easy. I would scratch my head aplenty and if that didn’t help then I would beseech the muses, more in my heart now, to reveal to me my next writing mission.
That morning, I had walked out on to the balcony of the apartment, my temporary abode in Karachi. I looked at the dark clouds gathering far above me. The monsoon weather, in full swing over the past few weeks, had not entirely declared itself vis-à-vis a proper deluge. Although I was used to severe rainstorms in Houston, the sporadic monsoon-based drizzle in Karachi was not serious enough to write home about.
Lost in thought about the raining habits of the two cities, the strengthening rain brought me out of my reverie. And then the unthinkable happened: within seconds a mere drizzle had declared itself as a rainstorm to reckon with. I was unused to such rain in Karachi or perhaps I had forgotten Mighty Monsoon.
Concurrent with the ferocious lightning and thunder, I heard the muse speak out.
“Thou shalt write about rain”.
And exactly then, with nature’s orchestra reaching a crescendo, the electricity in the apartment went off.
“Drats! What do I do now?” I asked the muse, but there was no response. The problem was that backup one, the battery-powered entity that enabled a few ceiling fans and electric lights could only do so for a few hours. At the speed the fan performed and the meager light that the bulbs generated was a fair indicator that the backup power was insufficient for internet connectivity. Adding insult to injury, power backup number two, the traditional generator that ran on petrol, did not automatically kick in as it was meant to. I had no idea how to troubleshoot it.
Completely in the dark inside and ravaged by the deluge outside, I let agitation rule my mind.
“This never happened in Houston during the fiercest of rainstorms, except when Allison, Katrina, Rita, Ike, and the likes, came knocking on our doors – but then they were category three or more hurricanes”. I complained aloud to the children.
They also chimed in about the lack of anything interesting to do during the blackout due to the bad weather outside.
It was then that I had my epiphany. I suddenly recalled that years ago, while I was more of a carefree child, I would drop all indoor activities and actually go outside to enjoy the rain. That was the case for most children in general: the neighborhood ones as well as the street urchins. No one was barred entry into the monsoon dance.
Looking around I saw mostly children and a few elderly people on
the rooftops. Looking down I saw many more children in the streets splashing
around in the newly created rivulets and mini-lakes. Overall, the youngest and
the eldest seemed most attuned to the pleasures of the wondrous rain. A few
enthusiastic dogs had joined in the frolicking too. In my fifteen years spent
in Houston I had never come across such a spectacle, although the rains there
were much more frequent and year-round compared to Karachi. There the young and
old Houstonians went about their business regardless of rain, sadly ignoring it
in the process. Maybe that was simply a pragmatic and mechanical approach to
life that the United States is well known for. Or perhaps Mighty Monsoon has a
magical effect on those few Karachiites that really know how best to
revel when the heavens pour.I suggested to the children that we go up to the rooftop, since we were privileged enough to access it, being occupants of the topmost apartment. Thinking we would be alone there, we were surprised that the door leading to the rooftop was ajar. What surprised me even more: three completely drenched people sitting at a makeshift table. The most expressive of them, seemingly an octogenarian, guffawed when he saw us emerge, threw us a high five and then went back to his animated conversation. Being outside on the rooftop chatting with others, completely oblivious to the rainfall, seemed like the most natural activity to the geriatric trio. I think the children and I derived a great deal of pleasure from this brief interaction. It validated our need to play freely on the rooftop in the downpour, drenched to our souls, and in doing so to enjoy the moment for all it’s worth.
What happened after the torrent had exhausted itself on Karachi, with roads quickly becoming impassable, sewage overflowing, electric wires falling into bodies of water, mosquitoes spreading infections, and so on, will be a story for another day.
Acknowledgment: This article was first published by the Houston Inner Looper Newspaper (Sept. 2013).
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