My heavy eyes open to the tolling of the church bells. It’s a Sunday and people like me hate to be woken up early in the mornings of a lazy Sunday. Damn the church bells. I try to pull up my blanket and curl away into slumber but the clang of the bells pierce my ears and make me remorse. And thus in a slight temper I wake up and brush aside the curtains. And more regret sets it. The sky is dark and gloomy and there is a slight drizzle. A cold breeze catches me and prompts me to curse the church boy.
My parents were out of station. They had gone in a vacation with their friends to Ooty. Everyone insisted me but I am in a precarious position in life where trips with your buddies make sense. The prospect of having booze and sharing some cigarettes with your friends over your melodramatic stories is a total yet fulfilling waste of time. And I love to indulge in this. And so I make it a point to stay out of family trips. Occasionally I tend to accompany them just to compensate for it. But apart from that, it’s my gang that I would always prefer to hang out with.
I walk heavily towards the bathroom and do the morning chores. The weather doesn’t change and the drizzle gets a bit stronger. The sun in nowhere to be seen. The birds chirping haven’t stopped yet nor do the cock-a-doodles of the nearby chicken cease. They are still waiting for his appearance. I decide to make a cup of tea. Sulaimani tea. Tea, crushed cardamom pods, grated ginger and some sugar in boiling water. No milk. And within minutes its aroma entices me. It’s too hot to take a sip so I let it settle. There are some books I brought form the library to finish off. But my mood hasn’t caught up to it yet. I open up the balcony, take my tea and light my cigarette and have a chai-sutta moment. Ah, it’s awesome. I lean onto my grandpas old reclining chair and enjoy the setting nature has provided.
Half a cup through, listening to the birds singing and soaking in the dampness of the cloudy atmosphere, I turn on my jukebox. Art Garfunkel greeted me in his melodic guitar intro and then Paul Simon opened up his smooth voice to the tunes of Kathy’s Song.
I hear the drizzle of the rain
Like a memory it falls
Soft and warm continuing
Tapping on my roof and walls……
This is a magical one from the duo. I have been an addict to it for years now and its simplicity of the song that makes it so special to me. I remember once I tried to sing this song to her but I failed miserably. Guess she too had heard it and likes it. And without knowing that I tried to replace the sweet enticing voice of Simon with my throaty and raspy voice. Some things are better left undone. And before I knew it I was into the last stanza of the song.
And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I.
And as it finished so did I. I was left all wanting to be loved. And I longed to talk to her. So I picked up the phone and decided to call her. I dialed her no and within few rings she picked it up. Hopes high I said a hello to which I was got a deep manly hello in reply. I clicked the red button immediately and threw the phone away. The tea is over, the cigarette is reduced to its ashes and the song is over and I am back to being depressed and dejected.