An old view from an old room
Last night was a rare beauty, here in Dusseldorf. I have
spent a considerable amount of nights here. Many of which have been the mellow
moist ones, with soft cold winds and a gentle sprinkling of raindrops. Quite
endearing really. Last night was different though. This city, rarely dramatic,
always rather silent and a mesh of indistinguishable whispers, began all of a
sudden at the onset of twilight to rumble gravely from the center of its
sky-belly. The thunder for me has for a long time been a music so great, I can
hardly trace the origin of its fascination for me. But it almost always instantly
lifts me from my mundane, slouching insect-life to stare up into the vastness
of the grey skies. It seems to emerge from some central node of the universe that
eludes my searching eyes and my pricked ears. But it feels as if it vibrates
from within me, travelling through each and every speck surrounding me. Like a
seismic shudder. Last night was such a night. Full of deep thundering rumblings
and incandescent flashes of lightening. And the rain. Not a paltry shower, not
at all. The rain fell with a great passion last night. The kind that refuses to
stay picturesquely framed in fastened windows but gushes inside and drenches
the indoors. Wets the floor and the soles of tired feet.
The window remained open last night. I sat on the wet ledge
last night. The music from within my room mingling with the rain’s, outside. I
also danced on the slippery stage of my room, with shadows of my own. Dancers
were not wanting outside either. Different acts. One followed by another. All
dancing in the rain. First a sprightly pair of men. Rushing out of the shelter
of the concrete building. One after the other, cutting across the street in a
graceful ballerina progression. Light footed and brisk. Jumping ever so lightly
over the deeper puddles. Landing with barely a thud on the pavement. Skimming
over the rain filmed street, right into their car. A second later, a crisp
whirring of the engine, and off they went. With wings weaved of droplets from
the settled rain-puddles, airlifted to accompany their majestic exit.
Soon after, there was a pair of young girls. Unlike the
fleeting vision of the men, theirs played out like a slow and long drawn
interlude. One defined by a sense of pause rather than progression. Standing a little apart on the large white
staircase. At different levels. One behind the other. They seemed to stare into
the rain. Waiting. Pondering. Synchronized in their frozen stances. If and when
they moved it was barely a shift of weight from one leg to another, but always
somewhat in sync. It looked more choreographed then the swinging bouncing act
of the puddle hoppers who had just passed them by. And perhaps more hypnotizing
for me as well. But the spell broke and perhaps in a combined telepathic
resolve they both shed their contemplative, their cautious inertia and in a sudden
leap of faith scuttled into the rain. And so they too disappeared from my view.
Much later, when I had tired of my twirling in the dark and had
made my mind to finally twirl right into my bed, there came a lone lady in red
who walked with an umbrella much redder, to the bus stop right opposite my
window. She sat there. A mesh of color lodged in a silent corner of the
otherwise dark and dull rain-soaked canvas. Her bus never came. In fact no bus
came. For a long long time. I thought perhaps I could sit by my window to give
her company. Sleep was deferred for a little longer. But growing weary. Both of
us. Perhaps she made up her mind. For herself and mine. So getting up, she
began her slow walk, under her bright red umbrella, dulled a little by the
downpour, but red nonetheless, to wherever she was headed.
