I was reading The Brothers Karamazov when the rain resumed. Under the streetlight, I could see the rain cross-hatching as it dripped from the trees and swayed in the wind. The rain sprayed across the narrow courtyard of the cafe and left a smattering of fine drops on the phone and the bag; I shut the book and moved to a corner far from the colonnade. I read for another half an hour. The rain had reduced to a drizzle and the cars were out; I decided to cycle back to my room and get dinner once I had dried myself up.
It was still drizzling when I climbed up towards the building. I decided I’d get some paneer parathas to go and eat them in my room rather than walk back to the canteen after I had changed clothes. The canteen wasn’t crowded. One of the busboys was wiping the muddy water away from the floor. I got myself two paneer parathas and a boiled egg bhurji and waited for them to pack it. People were coming out of their rooms and a few were headed to the canteen. The place grew crowded and I was drenched and the bag was heavy. I waited and waited and watched people and checked the news on my phone. The shopkeeper said hi. A group of northies came in and ordered a bunch of stuff. A guy with a full beard and no personality was furious his order was taking too much time to come through. I told myself that good things come to those who wait and god’s mill turns slowly but surely. A few people who had ordered food left. It started raining again. People who came in after me were leaving. I saw a square of aluminum foil spread out for the parathas and that got my hope high—here was my food I would eat in the warmth of my room. The square was there and there were no parathas being laid on it. After two more people left, I concluded that maybe my invisibility is quite a real thing and got out of the place and went to my room.
I reached my room dripping wet, got the bag off my shoulders and found the rain cover hadn’t helped a bit. The laptop and headphones were still dry. I removed my wet trousers, wet t-shirt, and the wet boxers. Dried myself. Changed into new clothes. I checked Zomato and most of the restaurants were closed for home delivery and the ones who didn’t would take an hour to reach. Anwar had gone home a few hours ago, in the morning. He would not return for a month. The few people I could talk to were not here. I left for the other tiny canteen near the hostel.
In the canteen, no one. The awning was broken and water pooled around the chairs. There was a tall and corpulent guy who looked no less than thirty-five talking to the workers. Ordering things to be brought up to his room. Mocking them. A huge chain of rudraksham on his neck and a steel kangan and a red and black thread on his wrist. Everything screamed ‘Brahmin!’ Everything screamed ‘Cow Belt!’ Everything screamed ‘Look at me!’ The very opposite of my invisibility. Mocking my invisibility. Mocking the thin, lanky guy with thick-rimmed spectacles. Mocking the worker who tried to man up and yet be submissive. The worker who wanted to prove that he too could order around a less manly man. The manly man was visible in the rain, ordering people around, announcing his presence through his voice, furious and capable of violence.
Manly men, dark nights pierced by the cold glow of streetlights, drains overflowing from the pounding of rain, flowers and leaves forming deltas of decaying life, the damp cuff of the trousers around your ankles—all of these reminds me of the time I took more tablets than I should. The onslaught of humanity against your supple ideas of the connectedness of things. The poison of compassion showing you its other side—the relative ease of offing yourself. Years ago I had fought against this. I had fought with my voice and my writing and my actions; all of it now relegated to the hazy realm of memory.
Two delayed parathas, a little more sound than necessary, a little less compassion than necessary, damp clothes; these are enough to break me.