THE PITTER PATTER OF RAIN!!!

Its a lazy Sunday afternoon of a summer vacation that just doesn't seem to end. It's been almost a month now and as it happens with all vacations, I am once again terribly bored. The house is in chaos today as everyone is at home and everyone is looking for time to kill. I have found refuge in a balcony, sitting by the window, watching the droplets of rain fall onto the ground and bring calmness to my mind despite the chaos around me. Rain does that. On a lazy afternoon with absolutely nothing to do, rain brings a sense of peace. The dark clouds, the gloomy atmosphere, the cold waves blowing across the sea, the light drizzle-they all add up to the somberness of the moment.

I don't know why but somehow I am not able to share the enthusiasm that my relatives are showing today afternoon. Everyone seems to be busy doing one thing or the other, yet me, I am just sitting here by the balcony on the 4th of the building, abosrbed in my own thoughts. A man runs across the road and into the opposite buliding, covering his head with his leather bag, to take shelter from the rain. A few children are playing football on the road behind our building, without a care in the world and enjoying themselves in the rain. A car comes honking and the kids step aside to let the car pass. As soon as the car passes, the children resume their game of football, rain being more of an inspiration than a detterrent in their ambition to kick the ball. The ball seems to get lost in the water collected on the ground now and then but the children don't seem to mind. The wetter they get, the happier they are.

Inside the house, some of the ladies are busy in the kitchen discussing the latest fall and rise in the prices of vegetables, saris and jewellery. I can hear their conversation from here. The men are busy in their own discussion. It's regarding whether Congress should continue in power in the next general elections or is it time for a change? The kids-my sisters and cousins, they
seem to be busy in their own world regarding what to do with the afternoon. Playing outside is considered as one of the options but my 10 years old cousin Noora reminds everyone that their parents wouldn't let them out in the rain so they start their brainstorming again. My eldest sister, Rubina, 18 and just out of school, is watching the latest promos on B4U music. The TV is in the hall, where all the men are sitting, so before long she's asked to turn down the volume by my Nana. She is not happy about it but she won't dare and try getting into an argument with Nana. As sweet as he was, once he said something, it was often the end of discussion. Unless you wanted to know what's hell wrath was like.

"Farid beta," I hear my mom's voice from the hall. "Farrrrrooooooo," she calls out again. I don't know why but I love it when my mother calls me farrrooo. Love seems to echo in every syllable of that. So much so that I never let anyone call me farrroo. That right is reserved just for mom. "Jee mummy," I reply back. "The pakodas are ready beta, come and eat."

Ahh-pakodas. Kachori. Sambosas. And a cup of tea. Perfect for a rainy day afternoon. But somehow I didn't feel like leaving the balcony side. So I asked mom to bring it here. "Mummy, can you bring it here please? I want to sit here and eat."

Five minutes and a few rain drops later, one of my younger cousin sisters, Farheen, brought me a plate full of kachoris and pakodas and a cup of tea. Thanking her, I took the plate and cup from her and rested it by the side of the balcony in front of me. She didn't say anything and went back on her duty. She was 20, a year younger than me but had been married for 3 years now and with a 2 year old son, my nephew Bilaal. Looking at her I wondered about life's predicament. I would be 21 in less than a month and when someone asked me who I was, all I could reply was that I was a 3rd year engineering student. She on the other hand, a newly turned 20 year old girl, was mrs Farheen Kausar and a mother. Life's not fair, I thought to myself. Why do some of us get the oppurtunities we seek in life while others are not even given a chance? Just because she was a girl, did that justify her getting married at the tender age of 17? My sister was 18 and if all of a sudden my dad were to talk about marrying her off, I would have just walked out of the house without a second thought. Luckily, my dad's thinking matched mine in that regard. My sister would be pursuing a course in architecture soon.

But did that in any way compensate for the injustice done to Farheen? I am not sure if you can call it injustice. But was she even ready for marriage? Leave alone to be a mother. I am about to turn 21 and I still consider myself to be too young to handly any sort of big responsibilties. And she was all of 17 when she was thrust upon the responsibilty of being a wife and a home maker. I wondered if I could even consider her to be younger than me. Sure, she may have been born after me, but the life that she was leading now, the resposibilities she was carrying out, I doubt she is any longer my younger sister. It almost feels awkward when she calls me 'bhaijaan.' Sometimes I feel I should call her 'aapa.'

I took a bite out of a kachori and sipped my tea, still watching the rain drops. Life is stranger than you think, I thought to myself. The youngest of my cousins, the 10 year old Noora comes running to me shouting 'Farid Bhaijaan, Farid Bhaijaan.' I take her up in my arms and make her on my lap. 'Kya hua?' I asked her in hindi. My youngest sibling, my 14 year old sister Nayab comes running after her. 'Nayab aapa is asking for the mp3 player. But I want to listen to songs," she says showing Nayab's blue colored Sony Mp3 player. "It's mine," Nayab says defensively.
I smile at the innocence of this fight. I slowly take away the mp3 player and hand it back to Nayab. Noora looks hurt. I tell her to go pick my iPod from my table and listen to songs from there. She gives me a big smile and leaves my lap to pick up my iPod. Nayab leaves happily too, now that her mp3 player has been returned.

The rain drops continue. The children continue playing football but are looking a bit tired now. Cars come and go by the street, their vipers turning every few seconds, to wipe away the water from the winshields, disturbing the game of football.My thoughts continue to consume me. Where has the innocence of youth gone? Where are the dreams that we held so close to our hearts when we were children? Where is the conviction we had in ourselves when we believed that the most difficult task in life was to score a 100 in an exam? My newphew Bilaal comes rolling on his tri cycle, zooming throug the room as if he were driving a ferrari. "Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm," he imitates the sound of a running car as he drives the tri cycle. I look at that child and wonder if he would ever realizethat his tri cycle wasn't a car-it was just that a, tri cycle. Somewhere in my heart I wish he wouldn't.

The conversation in the hall had turned from politics to why engineering was the most viable career option today. My uncle, Intesaar maamu, recounts his experiences and explains why he regrets not taking engineering when he had the chance to. My dad, elder cousin brother and nana listen vividly. I just smile at the irony of it all. My uncle regretted not taking engineering and I regretted just the opposite. I regretted sacrificng my dreamsf or a supposed safe career option. 'But my dreams aren't over yet,' I told myself. I don't have anything to regret in my life yet. I still have my whole life in front of me and hopefully by the time I am my Uncle's age, I won't be sitting with a bunch of old men and discussing the mistakes of my life.

The females of the house-my mom, my 2 aunts, naani and eldest cousin sister are having a discussion on some old relative from the village. I feel detached from it all. Like theywere talking about a place I didn't know of. I had been to my village only once and that too 14 years ago. I had never called it my home, whenever someone asked me where I was from, myreply had always been Mumbai. How could I call a place I had only seen once my entire life my home? Even if I was born there. I was a product of my surroundings, I had been shaped into what I am by the streets of Mumbai and the runes of Bahrain. Bihar and the village of Garri was just my birth place and nothing more. It didn't hold any other significance in mylife.

One of the kids scored a goal. He was celebrating wildly, splashing in the water, his joy knowing no bounds. My mom joined me in the balcony. "Aur kya kar hai mera beta?" she asked fondly, looking on at the game of football. "Nothing," I replied. "Just watching a game offootball and wondering when the rain would stop." "Ahaaa," she said. I looked at my mom, that face of ethereal beauty having the heart which had so much love stored in it and wondered how any one could love so much. Why was it that one person could love more than others? Why was it that one person cared so much more than any other? Why did we love someone more than some one else. Why does our heart seem to be more fond of one person than the other. We had a favourtie aunt, favourtite sibling, favourite cousin, even maybe a favorite parent. But why? Because they loved us more than others? And if all of them were to love us equally, would we love them equally too? No-even then, somehow we would still pick our favourites. Why does our heart do that? Why can't it love everyone equally?

"Mom," I said after a while, "Yes beta?" she asked me. "Do you ever wonder while you watch us grow up about how you were as kids and think that maybe it would have best if you had remained a child forever? Far away from the problems of the worldly life."
She smiled at me before replying. "Some times," she answered. "But then I remember that if I hadn't grown up, then I would have never known what it meant to be a wife. I would have never experienced the joy of being a mother. And," she continued after a pause, "I would have never known what it felt like to have a wonderful son like you."

I laid my head back on the railing of the balcony and smiled at her. She kissed me on the forehead and left, leaving my alone to my thoughts. So maybe it wasn't that bad to live inthis world after all. Maybe there was something to look forward to in life after all.The responsibility of being a husband, the joy of being a father still awaited me. My dreams and my life still awaited me.

The rain had stopped. And with it, the game of football had ended as well. The children, trying to catch their breath, scattered to ther homes with a promise to meet tomorrow again.The match over, I got up from the balcony as well. "Farrrriiiidddd," my dad called out."Coming dad," I answered back. I left the balcony to join everyone else in the hall. As Iwas making my way to the hall, I found Bilaal still on his tricycle riding away to glory.I picked him up from the tri cycle and placed him on his shoulders. "Ready to fly Bilaal?"I asked. Bilaal giggled and said, "Yes maamu." I flapped my hands out like they were wings zoomd across the corridoor and into the hall way with Bilaal laughing and cheering on.Hearing his laughter, I somehow felt a sense of peace, of happiness. Like this child'slaughter was the only thing that mattered. And really, it was all that really did matter.For if we could all put a smile on every child's face, this world would be a much better place.

I joined everyone else in the hall to catch a retelecast of my nani's favourite movie,Dilip Kumar's Ram Aur Shyam. As I looked around the hall at everyone sitting there, from my 2 year old nephew Bilaal to my 14 year old sister Nayab, to my 26 year old cousin brother Nehal to my 43 year old dad to my 65 year old Nana, I somehow couldn't help recounting Robert Frost's famous line:

AND MILES TO GO BEFORE I SLEEP

AND MILES TO GO BEFORE I SLEEP!!