You never know when a storm can brew up in the capital. It may have well been a sunny day, with you actually needing to roll up your sleeves. Come evening and you were sitting indoors planning a nice walk followed by a dinner or something, and voila! you venture out only to find the sky all overcast with scary looking clouds.
Worse, it doesn’t rain. The dust blows up into a hideous mass and leaves scatter everywhere; thunder rumbles with all the might in his sound-production kitty – but the floor of your terrace remains dry. No rain.
A couple walks in the dusty breeze. They are hand in hand, probably new to love.
The girl looks up at the saturnine sky as the guy draws her closer. You needn’t bother with storms anymore sweetheart, his eyes speak to her. They are interrupted with a crowd of raucous “corporation-school” children (read: government school) who have sticks in their hands and books sneaking out of torn bags. Storms don’t deter them on their lemon plucking and rock pelting mission. They do just fine.
A whiff of wet air tickles the nostrils. Sensations come alive, the song on the lips is now a cheery one. When it rains, the flowers will be pleased. The dust will give way to lovely, wet skies and every rain drop will do its bit in writing a loved one’s name on the window shade. The evening will transform from a morose, ugly customer to a paramour, lending the night a shade of rich romance.
The road lies mostly silent, the houses lining it teeming with people glued to their cricket-playing television sets. The littered foliage lies in eager wait, hoping to erase some of its grime with delicious rainwater.
It does not rain.