Two Men-Completely Drenched

Artwork by t h lisa

I am one of those who easily get upset. So I was stunned as the first raindrops hit me. Acting on an impulse, like others I also sought to be under the nearest shelter. I was still gathering my wits when I saw a man stumble forward and stop by my side. We glanced at each other and then tried to regain our breaths. I wiped my face with my handkerchief, gave my shirt and trousers a cursory look and then surveyed the road. 'Who could have foreseen the rain?' the man said easily. But I was in no mood for a conversation. I kept silent, putting an end to his overture. I thought the un-seasonal shower would soon stop, giving us an opportunity to get away. But looking up I saw dark clouds blotting out the sky, and what had started as a shower soon turned into a relentless downpour. The swirling water on the road flowed away. I was trying to gauge the situation when some cold drops fell on my head and shoulders. I looked up startled since I knew I was not standing under the open sky. Perhaps the man standing next to me had a similar experience because his eyes too traveled upwards. Our shelter was the old, narrow porch of an ancient building, barely five feet square. Drops of water glistened on the underside of the rotting beams above us. The drops would get bigger and then unable to sustain their own weight, fall down like ripe mangoes. Suddenly a gust of wind carried the rain in our direction and wetted us to our knees. I stepped back, cursing, while the man standing by my side leaning against the wall jumped up, startled.

I looked at the road ahead of me. Sometimes a car, with its windows rolled up, splashed by. A stray cyclist or two, their teeth gritted, their bodies completely wet, laboriously pedaled down the road. I liked the determined manner in which they faced the onslaught of the rain. I looked idly at my companion. He was wearing a kurta and pajamas. The kurta was sticking to his shoulders. The drops falling from the ceiling had drenched his head, back and arms. His pajama legs were wet up to his knees. I looked at my own clothes. Their condition was not better than his. We were companions in distress. My plight angered me.

The rain showed no signs of abating. I turned to look at my companion, wanting to make amends for my past indifference.

'The clouds are still heavy,' he said.

'It's not a safe place, if you ask me,' I replied looking up at the porch roof. His gaze followed mine and then our eyes met. In fact, I was anxious to get away from this place. A few more drops fell on my head. I shifted my position but to no purpose. The entire roof was dripping and the drops caught me whether I stepped back or forward. I saw some more stragglers on the road.

'Let's get out of here,' I said in desperation.

He made no response. Then he smiled and seemed to shrink back more into the corner. Perhaps he thought my suggestion was too odd to be acted upon. But my temper was rising and I was feeling suffocated under the porch. The drops of water were piercing me like arrows. I looked intently at my companion but there was not a trace of impatience or anxiety on his face. It was too much for me.

'So you think you can save yourself by sticking to this place?' I said with an edge to my voice.

'I see no other choice,' he replied coldly.

'Do you think this rain will stop in another ten minutes or so?'

'I see no possibility of it,' he said in a deliberate manner.

'Then why are we making fools of ourselves by waiting here? If we must get drenched why not face it boldly?'

'Let's wait for some time more. The rain may stop by then.' He wiped his face with the end of his shirt which was sticking to his skin.

I drew a long breath to relieve myself of the suffocation that was slowly building itself within me. It was still raining hard as before. I looked around in the hope of spotting some drier place. But there was none in sight. Of course, there was a petrol pump but it was quite some distance from where I was standing. Beyond it I could see the outer wall of a residential building on whose gate, I knew, was written in bold letters: Beware of the dog.

I was still mulling over the prospects of shifting from that place when a dog appeared under the porch. We drove it away.

'Look, our standing here like this does not seem to make any sense to me,' I said turning to the man.

'But what else can we do?' he said, shrugging his shoulders.

'Why, we can get out of here.'

'In this rain?'

'Why not?' I said, flaring up. 'We are already drenched through the skin. Also, are we safe under this dilapidated roof?'

'But even so...' He looked at me confused.

'I am not staying here. I'm off.'

'As you wish,' he said as if trying to shrink further into himself.

His reply incensed me. I had thought there was much in common between him and I--our going out of the house, getting caught in the rain, taking shelter under the same rotten roof. And then getting drenched together. Since we touched each other at many points I thought we would also be thinking in the same vein. But his silly logic defied my understanding. I braced myself up for action. Lifting one foot I rolled up the leg of my wet pants. I don't know whether I was more angry than confused. My reading of the situation had gone awry. We were poles apart in our thinking and our sense of values was no less different. He wanted to get wet, drip by drip, till his entire body was drenched. The drops were falling on his head and trickling down his back to for puddles at his feet. And yet he was clinging to the porch! Perhaps he was satisfied with what he had managed to achieve at the first go.

Slothful! Dimwitted! Gutless! Deadwood!

I spat on the ground stepped down into the raging waters, disdainfully refusing to look back. As I stepped out gusts of wind and needle-sharp showers greeted me.

Struggle! Explore! Search! What else was life about?

I represent the new generation and my thinking is cast in a different mould. To get wet, to allow the damp to seep through your body, fanned by a cold wind, could spell disaster. It is all in the game, though everyone prefers to die in his own way. For instance, no one wants to die of cancer or by falling under a running train. But if a man caught a chill and died of pneumonia wouldn't people scoff at him? 'The fool!' they would say. 'Could there be anything more stupid than standing under a leaking roof the whole day waiting for the rain to stop?'

It all depends on how we look at life. Since we have all to die one day it matters little how we meet our end. It would be a good subject for discussion. I'll go to the Coffee House and stand under the fan to dry my terelyne pants and shirt. Then I would pose a question to my companions: What would you like to die for? Of course, how they die is their own personal affair. I only want to know their ultimate goal for which they are prepared to stake their lives. That's what really matters. Is it laudable to die of pneumonia through exposure under a leaking roof? 'You're right!' I'll say triumphantly. 'That's where the big difference lies. The manner in which we think--that is it.' I'll tell them about the man standing under the leaking roof who refused to budge from there for fear of getting wet under the open sky although he was soaked under the dripping roof. While I had walked out straight into the full blast of the rain. It was only after undergoing this grim ordeal that I had made it to the Coffee House and its secure roof. I have ventured, I've faced the buffeting of the rain in my quest. I've tried to be one with it in my spirit.

At one with it in spirit. It was the lashing rain that had aroused in me the crusading spirit to seek…

While my companions would still be reflecting over my words I would drive home the point that being imbued with the belief that I had become one with the rain had helped me reach a new and better haven. Belief! They would readily accept this word too and make it their own. Relegating that wet man to the limbo of forgetfulness they would trot out this word as if it was their own.

Attachment. Curiousity. Quest. Belief.

Their eyes shifting like a parrot's, they would tell me in subdued tones that the men of the Vedic Age were inspired by these four concepts: Attachment. Curiosity. Quest. Belief. Nowadays we don't live by any of these concepts and that is our undoing. None of us can write a Veda, any Veda...

But you were saying something about the man caught in the rain.

Yes, about the rain...

While walking I suddenly noticed that the rain had stopped. I looked up to see that the clouds were fleeing. The Coffee House was still far away, but on the rain-washed road my feet were carrying me forward of their own accord, my pants and shirt still sticking to my skin. I had only one Charminar cigarette left in my pocket. I saw a wayside tea shop, its oven with glowing red coals inside. The evening had turned quite chilly. I stopped in front of the oven and proceeded to wring out the water from my clothes. I took out the cigarette from the packet. It was limp and wet. I asked for a match from the teashop owner and managed to light it. I had hardly taken a few puffs, however, when it unraveled. I spat out the crumbs of tobacco and ordered a cup of tea. Then I stood against the oven, waiting for my clothes to dry. With the stopping of the rain, traffic had again appeared on the road.

'So you're drying your clothes?'

I looked up. My erstwhile companion was entering the shop, a smile on his lips. He sat down at a nearby table and asked me to join him at tea. The wind had risen. My clothes were almost dry.

'You were in a hurry,' he said. 'The rain let up soon after you left.' He squeezed out the end of his shirt.

I gave him a cold stare and mumbled, 'And if it had not stopped?'

'Then we would have stuck to the place.'

I found his answer very annoying. To waste precious words is as silly as killing a sparrow with a bullet meant for a lion.

'You're a common man--a man of the street,' I said testily.

'What do you mean?' He asked, his face a question mark. 'And what made you say that?'

'Why ask? You're like any other common man.'

He did not seem to take offence at my remark. The tea came. He stirred his cup with a spoon.

'I'm not mincing words when I say that you and people of your ilk are a self-defeating lot. I mean it.'

Instead of a frown he greeted my remark with a smile. Then he looked at me said, 'Are you angry because I did not give you company?'

'Don't be silly,' I replied, piqued. 'Who wanted your company anyway? I'm not Napoleon that I should be looking for succour to fight the Battle of Waterloo. I had only made a simple observation.'

'What observation?'

'That it would have made no difference whether we stayed on or moved away. The damage was already done. You weren't dry, were you?'

In reply he smiled. 'I think your shirt is made of polyester.'

'Yes, it is. But you must know that even polyester can get wet.' I replied sarcastically.

'I think your pants are also made of the same stuff.'

'Of course, yes.'

'And your shirt doesn't have a pocket.'

'No, it doesn't have any.'

He sipped his tea in silence as if he was weighing my answer. Then said, 'If you don't mind, would you care to tell me if you have got anything besides the clothes you're standing in?'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, have you anything in your trouser pockets? Money, coins?'

'Why, I do have some change.'

'Any currency notes?'

'No, none.'

'Any picture? A photograph that you are fond of carrying with you?'

'No.'

'Any medicine? Any pills or life-savers required in an emergency.'

'No, none.'

'Any talisman?'

'What rot are you talking about?'

'So I take it that you don't carry a talisman?'

'No, I don't.'

'To sum up, you're wearing a pair of trousers, a shirt, a pair of shoes. You've also some change and nothing else besides.'

'That's right.'

'Your shirt will dry up fast because it's made of polyester fiber.'

'Of course, yes.'

'Likewise, your trousers will dry up earlier than mine, right?'

'Indeed.'

'So there you are!' he gave me a broad smile.

'What do you mean?' I almost exploded with rage.

'You've nothing else on you except a shirt, a pair of pants, shoes, and some change. But I have something more besides these. And even if my clothes get soaking wet I must protect that something.'

'What's that something?' I almost shrieked.

'The thing that I have and you don't have.'

'Well, why don't you name it? And stop playing these lawyer's tricks on me. Nothing is indispensable in this world, much less your nonsense.'

He refused to get provoked. He quietly counted out some money and handed it to the teashop owner.

As we came out he gently said, 'If you've something precious which you wish to protect against the elements you'll also prefer to stay under a roof rather than risk it under the open sky. It's this deterrent that keeps one tied down to the place.'

Then he walked away without looking back.

By now my polyester clothes were completely dry.

Iqbal Majid is a noted short story writer in Hindi. Sadiq Hossain is a free-lance translator.