From where he stood in that tiny veranda-cum-balcony before the door to their house opened, he could listen to the rain drumming rhythmically on the metal roofs, pooling into the lowland by forming a brown, chocolaty, mushy pool. The day was darker, clouds happening as merely as breathing or eating. When the wind blew in unknowing directions, a chunk of the rain turned it's route towards that veranda and got Rumi partly soaked- barely wet.

"Rumi!" His mother yelled, her voice cowering under the bellows of the sky crying, letting itself flow like life, like a river, like nothing else. "Go inside! What are you doing here, getting wet? You'll fall ill again!"

Rumi turned around with fresh water dripping down his small set of hair and his face with an expression of guilt, his body setting off goosebumps like the detonation of a slow bomb, creeping and lingering and alarming enough due to the cold, stifling Bombay rains. His mother began to pull clothes off the ropes that hung hooked from one wall to the other- diagonally, pinching out clips that held them in the wind. She collected them in a bucket and pulled Rumi inside and told him to stand at the door while she went and brought back a dry, fluffy towel that smelled of soap. She then gave him a change of clothes and made him sit tightly on the couch, asked him if he'd completed his homework and went in the kitchen to continue cooking whatever was simmering in the pot on the stove.

After the dining table was clear of dishes and a glass of milk was forced down his itchy throat, he was sent to bed on time, but of course, he didn't sleep. The sun was drowned, the sky was covered, the earth was filling up, and while the world around him slept in that noisy night, he waited patiently, looking outside the window: only a moment to escape from the rush of that day, to flush that day off, to undo what had been done that day- to summon it all and pile it behind his stuffy mind as storage, a library perhaps.

He looked beside his bed in that small room where he laid alone, to the even smaller shelf of books he had borrowed from his father and the cafeteria. Rustom Cafe. He was fourteen, but whatever he read were astounding- Midnight's Children, Bye-Bye Blackbird, The Old Man, and The Sea, The Mandarins, and if he scored well this time, his father said that he'd be inherited with The Great Gatsby and Clear Light Of Day.

He loved the sight of books that stood steadily right before his eyes. He'd read every one of them (he'd only get another book if he were done reading the first one) and hence, when he watched those books, it gave him a sense of pride, a sense of confidence and authority, ownership and possession; as if he had been blessed with the independence of his life. They weren't just books he owned and read; they were places he'd already been to. Hawaii, Delhi, London, and Paris.

From a very young age, his father made sure that Rumi read. If anything, while the world sped through life like a wheel, Rustom wanted to inherit a habit of not traditions, a culture born out of human nature- to read is to love- he thought.

•~•~•~•

1974

Rumi was nine.

The children that lived within the lane had gathered that summer afternoon of still air to play hide and seek. In that arid time of day, when the sun stood firm at the center of the sky as if providing spotlight to everyone, not even a single life wanted to move in the breathtaking humidity of rising Bombay.

They squeaked, then cheered and then screamed in joy because their plan to somehow run from their confinements had worked out, and now, they all could play peacefully- not so much. There was only one ground rule: no getting out of that entire lane; towards the main road of the busy city. Of course, they'd agreed. At that point- they'd agree to anything. To keep the children's body temperature at normal, they were forced to chug on a glass of cold milk or chaas so that nobody had to bother about a sunstroke at least.

Rumi's mother had offered to prepare chilled lemonade, sweet ones, as they all liked. It was as if no life stirred in that lowland at that hour, and even birds rested on tree branches, insects remained hidden, squirrels didn't run around the area- but instead sat quietly in corners where the ground was wet. Two dogs could be seen lying down on the hot, stony, heat-emitting land at different places- one of them fast asleep and the other looking at the children lazily, his ears dangling on either side of his face and the tail too tired to move. Its paws stretched out, and it seemed to be dead but was just expecting a little sympathy, hoping one of these running aliens wouldn't mind bringing a small bowl full of delicious, satisfying drink of water. When one of the children hopped by him, his tail wagged slightly, indicating hope again, and then he rolled his eyes at it- a pair of dark marbles taking a circle within white balls.

And suddenly, the shoving began. One shoved and then the other, and the shoving became harder, harsher, shrieks filled the area- high pitched and unpleasant. A band of sparrows flew off an adjoining wire nearby, perhaps by that noise, but then they flapped their wings around each other, got into a rhythm, and moved and flew away.

Someone began counting to ten very loudly, and he was told to do so, so his voice would reach every other player. Some of the children hid behind parked bikes and cars, some behind bushes, some in the tiny veranda on the ground-level, and then Rumi became confused. He looked around only to find every space to hide occupied, full, and he kept making gestures to ask whether he could join them, and they swiftly refused.

But before the guy almost finished counting, he looked behind and ran, without turning around, without thinking twice, he got just past the lane of the lowland and sat behind a little shop of roof-sheets that sold cigarettes.

For the first couple of minutes, he sat there waiting, listening to the other children squeal and scream- "you're caught!" And he patiently waited for the boy to come and catch him, smiling smugly, proudly that he'd gotten to a place where no one could ever find him. He knew he'd win sensibly, plainly because nobody was allowed to go past that area. But Rumi did. While looking forward to being able to win this game, he watched several men pass by buying cigarettes, different types, flavors, etc. (he didn't know much about them). The road was not as full as it'd usually be, and so he gladly also looked at cars riding by, at full speed, men riding a moped with women sitting behind, their legs on one side.

The heat was stifling. In fact, it was so visibly hot that Rumi could see the vapors rising from the main-road, like belly dancers making their way above. He found that sight so fascinating that he began believing he had made a scientific discovery- "heat makes the earth belly dance," he thought. He stayed there, kicking stones, sitting in the open hiding, not wanting to look back.

Hours passed, and Rumi watched the world around him grow darker, murkier, softer, denser, the yellow mist of day fading and crumbling into shades of pinkish, bluish, orangish. The voices in the city had calmed a little more, and the birds had begun to find shelter, dogs kept running around trying to find comfortable places to spend the night and perhaps, if fortunate, something to eat. His stomach growled loudly, an alarm of emptiness. He debated if he should go back, reveal himself to the others, let them know that he was the ultimate winner. But he didn't. He stayed there some more, sat with his knees close to his chin, his chest going finny.

That was until he suddenly froze with a shiver. Something had tickled the back of his ear. He quickly, in a state of panic, reached his hand behind his ear and rubbed his index finger to feel if anything was there. It was. An insect. A very tiny locust. And it was squashed now, some kind of gummy liquid on his finger. He brushed it away and stood up very suddenly, and without even understanding anything dashed into someone by the shop.

"Sorry-" He mumbled, "sor-!" And then he looked up to the man. He was fair, very bright. He wore ragged trousers and a very old but extremely white shirt and had golden hair. He was buying a cigarette from the shop. But then he picked out a small piece of candy wrapped in red plastic paper and offered it to Rumi. Of course, he didn't take it, and he knew better what mom would always tell him. "Do not talk to strangers. Nor should you take anything they give."

Those words rang at the backest back of his head, almost muffled, and it made him move his head from right to left, then again. But the man still offered, smiled, and bopped his head in a gesture that said, "you can have it." And so Rumi took it and stood there quietly before the man said nothing then left.

The sky turned bright gray and then into a pastel of blue fur. It was evening. Twilight. In that quietness of the city, he could suddenly listen to water from the sea nearby, rustling, climbing, and retreating. And then a flash of street lights and then the vanishing sun.

He was always that perceptive, even as a child, astonishingly absorbing.

But then he felt the need to go home. He was tired, bored, done with the game. He was hungry and thirsty. He turned and walked behind the tiny shop and kept walking and after a couple of steps, could see the other children already playing something else, screaming and squealing again, excited, energized. None of them had even thought of him, or realized that he was gone for so long? When he reached home and climbed the stairs to enter his house, on the veranda, he saw a big round steel plate with several empty glasses on it, except one. It was his, full, and left out. Like him. The temptation to drink it already dried up, the drink warmer than ever.

He could smell the food being cooked by his mother, the onions being smothered in oil and garlic. He saw his father listening to the news on a tiny black box he never understood.

He just went ahead and walked into his room, closed the door, and cried.

•~•~•~•