It’s Friday, the 15th of July, 8:08pm.
Uncle Trevor finally got his own place to stay, not very far, about four blocks down the street. He’s been staying there for a week now.
Uncle Trevor’s house is on the way to the guy’s house. I do not remember what possessed me to go visit him today. The guy is droning on about the Kashmir situation while I only half process his words. Something on his table catches my eye. It’s one of those old boxes of watercolour cakes that they’ve long stopped manufacturing. I turn it over and check the date of packaging. The thing is 12 years old. He says I can keep it.
On my way back home, it begins to rain. Big, heavy drops fall at first, a little tentatively. Then all at once, it pours. Uncle Trevor’s house is ten steps from me and that is where I take refuge. I ring the doorbell and wait for a few moments, as hurried footsteps make their way to the door. Uncle Trevor squints at my face. It is dark outside with all the cloud cover. It’s measured in oktas, Uncle Trevor once told me. For some reason, this piece of information has always stayed with me. I sit still under the ceiling fan, while he makes me some tea. It’s too strong.
“Uncle Trevor, what do you make of the Kashmir situation?”
Uncle Trevor lends me his umbrella so I can walk home. Our street is flooded with water up to my ankles. I’m drenched up to my waist by the time I cross one block. The rest of me is soaked in sweat. It’s humid and I perspire a lot. My phone’s in my pocket. It’s probably alright. It’s been through worse. The headlight of some vehicle behind me casts my shadow on the street before me.
I get home and take my glasses and wristwatch off. I remove my wallet and leave Uncle Trevor’s umbrella to dry. I find dry clothes to change into. Dry, but not fresh. The t-shirt reeks of sweat. I discard it and pick another. This one is dusty. I put it on anyway. Laundry is a bitch to do in the rainy months. I place a bucket under the leak in the roof and put the leftovers from last night into the microwave oven. My parents still aren’t back home. The telephone rings as I cast a look at our washing machine with the Donal Duck sticker on its side.
Laundry really is a bitch to do in the rainy months.