The Summer of Absolutely Nothing

2.

It was raining - hot, fierce summer showers.

The balcony of my fourth-floor apartment was quite the vantage point. It was privy to the much-famed View.

The View was the selling point of my house. Designed by my architect mother, the apartment was tasteful and understated - upper middle-class rich. Light poured in from strategically placed windows; the wide living-cum dining room gave the impression of openness and largeness; a pleasant contrast from the dark houses subdivided into several small dingy rooms which were the norm in the city.  Also absent was the nostalgic clutter that filled these houses - ugly family photos, cheap curios from travels around the world, medals from your first standard bunny hop race, gaudy showpieces which took up whatever breathing space was left, in The Cupboard - a huge formidable wooden affair which blocked the living room from the eyes of curious passer-bys.

It was thus natural that our house, in its difference and class, drew gasps from visitors. However, ironically, my apartment won simply by strategic advantage of position.

The View was vista of trees, a multitude of greens, just below our eye level, trailing away into the distant sea, a blue glimmer at the horizon. The formidable neem-next-door, home to a wide variety of birds (we can even boast of migratory birds in the winter) now rather hid the sea - it had grown in our ten years here. Still, it well lived up to the capital V ascribed to it.

Curtains of rain lashed at my face, hot, stinging, as I hung over the railing. The foliage gleamed darkly green, with the iron grey sea behind. A still, silent hush filled the air; not a leaf stirred. The dark grey clouds were cracking, pale grey light filtered through. That's the pity of summer showers; they never lasted long, and I always felt irrationally unhappy when they ended. As last winter showed, it took a great deal of rain for me to tire of it.

The faint yellow hue of shop lights from the Main Street looked queerly homely and comforting through the grey rain. Darkness always did make small spaces look warm and homely.

A sedentary existence, mine was now; I just lived. Not for anything, but just in harmony with this time, this place. I was one with the rain, the lights, the fresh, cool air. Happiness which knew no rhyme or reason, which would melt away like the clouds, in an hour.

This was what living in the moment was; I had forgotten.