Rain Or Drone, We've Miles To Go: Conversations On A Wet Evening

(MENAFN- Khaleej Times) Caught between a rich past, a crippled present, and stillborn dreams, this couple remains oddly unbothered

By: Suresh Pattali

It rained for days. More than just rain - almost a cyclone. Tables and chairs from alfresco cafés and patios seemed to grow wings, while highways and arteries turned into restless waves whenever four wheels dared to cross them.

I didn’t crib, though I hate rain. I felt it had been long overdue. A rain of such fury usually comes before the Middle East bids adieu to its biting winter. Sadly, what was missing was the much-loved petrichor. It rained non-stop, without giving rain lovers a chance to step out, breathe it in, and lose themselves in the scent of the earth.

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You need a pause after the first crack of the skies for petrichor to rise from every pore of the soil and kiss your face - especially after a good overnight shower. That’s when you splash in puddles, drenching unsuspecting passersby. Good old childhood days flashed across my mind like the streaks of lightning outside.

I hate rain because what follows its bliss is agony for many. Yet, as I lay watching a pair of white doves take shelter on my bedroom sill, preening their feathers while raindrops hammered the glass like hail, I felt none of my usual detestation. Let it rain, I thought. Who cares?

That’s when she got up, walked to the window, and paused beside the new, leggy bonsai - like a statue silhouetted against the streetlight.

“We need to move the plant deeper inside. It may not survive the extreme heat,” she murmured.

“Let’s see. It’s not summer yet - it’s raining,” I said. We had decided to carpe diem.

“We had no real winter this time, did we?”

“Yes, we did. There were some biting days.”

“I can’t remember.” Her voice sounded strained in the dark as rainwater whipped against the panes, testing the rubber seals.

“It’s not necessary to remember everything. But for your information, you wore that lavender jacket almost twenty-four hours a day a month or two, refusing to change.”

“Refusing to change? Really? By the way…did I change today?”

“Yes. You bathed and wore the eau de parfum your son gifted from Germany.”

She sniffed herself for evidence.“Oh God…I keep forgetting my medications.”

“You took them. I gave them to you.”

“You know something? I forgot to water the plant. How many cups did the shopkeeper say?” she asked, returning with cups of water.

“You’re killing the plant. He said one cup, twice a week.”

“Oh, really? Thank God you remember.”

“I remember everything on your behalf. One bookkeeper is enough for the two of us, right? It’s fine.”

“How old do you think this plant is?” she asked, her voice nearly drowned by thunder.

“Why does age matter in everything?” I teased.

“Why are you getting philosophical past midnight?” she said, flinching as thunder shook the building.

“You’re sporting your greys, saying you want to age gracefully. Even Gen Z colours their hair.”

“You think I should?”

“Of course. Live the day. Celebrate the present. Be the queen of the house.”

“Will you remind me tomorrow?”

“Of course. It’s my duty.”

“Why am I like this? I can’t remember what I had for dinner.”

“You’re flinching again like a child at thunder. By the way, remember we once spoke about having another baby? How old would the child have been now?”

“I do remember. How could I forget that? But why do I remember the wrong things?”

“Because I remember all the right things for you.”

“Why did you mention that dream?”

“It would have been one too many.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’d have ended up taking care of two children. You’re already one for me.”

“I feel like having another gulp of Moscato.”

“No. You’re getting addicted.”

“Some orange juice, please?”

“One orange is four spoons of sugar. In juice form, that’s six. And you’re diabetic.”

“Only once in a while?”

Her fingers moved towards the bonsai leaves.

“No! Don’t hurt the bonsai. You already had four oranges today. See? You’re a child now.”

“Am I a problem child?”

“No. I enjoy raising my new child. It’s fun.”

“But I must be an expensive one - medications and tantrums.”

“Children are always expensive. Thank God you’re not in school.”

“Every night I still go to school…My dreams are full of my days at GEMS Modern. Why did they let me go?”

“Every job has a retirement age, no matter how passionate you are.”

“Dad, you don’t dream anymore? Please don’t stop being a dreamer just because you’re taking care of me.”

She called her husband“Dad”-something she would never stop. I, in turn, enjoyed calling her Amma.

“I can never stop dreaming,” I said.“I’m a certified dreamer. But I don’t seem to dream anymore.”

“Then don’t stop. Dream anything - civilised or not, moral or not. Just dream. I won’t ask about them anymore. You fought for your space all your life. I was always the intruder.”

My phone buzzed - a message cutting through the cacophony of the storm and phone alerts about incoming missiles.

“Who’s messaging, boss?”

“Look at you - so alert about my messages after all that lecture. Some UAE hater ranting on Facebook - can’t tell thunder from missile booms, it seems. Nonsense.”

“Get up. Water is leaking in. Bring a mop,” she ordered.

She absentmindedly ran her fingers over the bonsai leaves, as if counting them. I should count them someday, I thought. Might be a good stress buster.

“Can’t you mop it yourself? Remember what the doctor said? You need to keep your brain active.”

I watched her slow, deliberate movements - like a graceful dancer performing Swan Lake. Her silhouette by the window looked fragile. The pigeons had vanished. They should have waited. I felt a pang of worry.

Outside, it poured relentlessly. A massive billboard along E311 lay uprooted, and cars were submerged in sheets of water.

“Dad, you said carpe diem. So…another ounce of Moscato? It’s so romantic. I used to dance in the rain…climb wet cashew trees and shake water over my sisters.”

“It’s raining sorrow everywhere - at home, across the Arab world, and beyond.”

“Why is Iran doing this?”

“Because Trump is punishing them.”

“Why is Trump doing this?”

“Because they won’t give him a Nobel.”

“So he’ll get one now?”

“Maybe - from Israel - when only two civilisations are left standing.”

“Dad…did I water the bonsai today?”

“You did. If you love watering, I’ll buy you one from Day to Day - made in China. You can water it endlessly till your hippocampus blooms like cherry blossoms.”

“You’re angry. It’s not my fault I forget.”

“I’m not blaming you. Just joking. When no one cares for a caregiver, the caregiver amuses himself.”

“Are you wearing out? Are you taking your meds? Did I take mine?”

“You did. I gave them. I can’t afford to wear out - we’ve a long way to go. I never tired raising my daughter. I won’t tire raising you. I’ll walk you back through your childhood…then bring you forward again to your blooming days, so you can fall in love once more.”

“You’ll never change. Such a flirt. By the way, do you still talk to that Abu Dhabi friend - the Wonderwall you chatted with past midnight?”

“She’s blocked me.”

“You must have done something mischievous.”

“I didn’t. Maybe my soul did.”

The morning after the storm broke like a child who had just stopped crying after receiving a doll - tear stains still faint on her cheeks.

The rain had cleared the clogs in my cognitive terrain. No more waterlogging. The sky gleamed over the dunes.

It was time for the dream merchant to pack up his camels.

“Come on, child. We’ve miles to go - rain or drone.”

“Mind your words, editor,” she smiled.“Say, let’s go, baby.”

The writer is executive editor of Khaleej Times

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