Rain Event
It was 6 PM.
And the end of a nicotine session with the Wabbster. After a particularly traumatizing day's work of aligning laser beams, there's not much one can ask of the day. So... birds were chirping, young couples with overflowing pockets in some corner of the city would have been getting cozy (and old couples too, I really have nothing against them), and leaves and flowers were oscillating into each other with such speed and stamina as to make Michael Phelps hang his head in shame--when suddenly out of nowhere, a monstrously huge drop of liquid ooze slams the Crapper's head with brute force and beats the living shit out of him.
And how it Rained.
Now, Bangalore has been prey to heavy rains for a while, and the posters of Lady Luck in all her resplendent glory that had so far adorned the walls of the Crapper's life and shielded him from the furious onslaught of the chaotic monsoons were blown away and ripped to shreds by a friggin tornado. Ergo, I found myself stuck in a 'Rain Event' (quoting Air Marshal Carlin.)
Half-an-hour's wait did little to ease streams of water that had somehow percolated through my waterproof jacket into places where the sun don't normally shine. On discovering the fact that my innermost layers of clothing had been compromised, I branded the activity of high tea on the low and sundry footpaths of Rajajinagar a futile exercise, and decided that it was time to move.
The last time I found myself trapped in a similar predicament was during a bike trip to Hyderabad in May, and in the perspective of that day, today was naught but child’s play. But that is the stuff of legend, and deserves a blog-post in itself.
Little did the Crapper know that the adventure had only just begun. An utterly defeated jacket containing a Nokia 1112, a Creative Zen Stone, 4GB of wet Data on a USB drive, and soaked books among other things--Buses and call-centre cabs rampaging every nook and corner of the road--autorickshaws, the self proclaimed Templar Knights of Bengaluru city, waging a crusade against other genres of vehicles--overly enthusiastic scooterettes surveying the topography of potholes by displacing their fluid contents on beings of the road, living and non-living. One and half hours to cover 12 KMs. One gets the general idea.
At this point, all one would wish for is to watch steam radiate from one’s body and sink deeper down into that warm sensation that only a hot bath can offer. Water, heated to the right temperature, to wash away life’s dull aches and pains, and all of the acid rain. But noooo, not me. I wanted to be a jackass. I wanted to recreate some magic. I wanted to face the elements--the howling winds, needle-like raindrops on my face, and challenging terrain. I wanted to feel alive.
And I did.
So, if you were out on the roads and you saw this biker, enthusiastic, drenched to the core, cutting foot-high swamps with a zest that would disgrace most 4x4's, humming songs of Black Label Society, Manowar or Fear Factory-- then know that it was me.
I felt like a child.
And I felt free.
And the end of a nicotine session with the Wabbster. After a particularly traumatizing day's work of aligning laser beams, there's not much one can ask of the day. So... birds were chirping, young couples with overflowing pockets in some corner of the city would have been getting cozy (and old couples too, I really have nothing against them), and leaves and flowers were oscillating into each other with such speed and stamina as to make Michael Phelps hang his head in shame--when suddenly out of nowhere, a monstrously huge drop of liquid ooze slams the Crapper's head with brute force and beats the living shit out of him.
And how it Rained.
Now, Bangalore has been prey to heavy rains for a while, and the posters of Lady Luck in all her resplendent glory that had so far adorned the walls of the Crapper's life and shielded him from the furious onslaught of the chaotic monsoons were blown away and ripped to shreds by a friggin tornado. Ergo, I found myself stuck in a 'Rain Event' (quoting Air Marshal Carlin.)
Half-an-hour's wait did little to ease streams of water that had somehow percolated through my waterproof jacket into places where the sun don't normally shine. On discovering the fact that my innermost layers of clothing had been compromised, I branded the activity of high tea on the low and sundry footpaths of Rajajinagar a futile exercise, and decided that it was time to move.
The last time I found myself trapped in a similar predicament was during a bike trip to Hyderabad in May, and in the perspective of that day, today was naught but child’s play. But that is the stuff of legend, and deserves a blog-post in itself.
Little did the Crapper know that the adventure had only just begun. An utterly defeated jacket containing a Nokia 1112, a Creative Zen Stone, 4GB of wet Data on a USB drive, and soaked books among other things--Buses and call-centre cabs rampaging every nook and corner of the road--autorickshaws, the self proclaimed Templar Knights of Bengaluru city, waging a crusade against other genres of vehicles--overly enthusiastic scooterettes surveying the topography of potholes by displacing their fluid contents on beings of the road, living and non-living. One and half hours to cover 12 KMs. One gets the general idea.
At this point, all one would wish for is to watch steam radiate from one’s body and sink deeper down into that warm sensation that only a hot bath can offer. Water, heated to the right temperature, to wash away life’s dull aches and pains, and all of the acid rain. But noooo, not me. I wanted to be a jackass. I wanted to recreate some magic. I wanted to face the elements--the howling winds, needle-like raindrops on my face, and challenging terrain. I wanted to feel alive.
And I did.
So, if you were out on the roads and you saw this biker, enthusiastic, drenched to the core, cutting foot-high swamps with a zest that would disgrace most 4x4's, humming songs of Black Label Society, Manowar or Fear Factory-- then know that it was me.
I felt like a child.
And I felt free.
