Just Another Rainy Day

Another rainy day. I’m sitting on my bed while I stare out my window, getting partially wet from the heavy rain. The perfect time to observe the happenings in the four storied building opposite mine, in a strictly non-perverted sense.
I turn to my favourite window in the building, third floor, to the right. I call it “Raunak Ghar”, house of light. The usual Indian family: grandparents, parents, and their two children, elder son, younger daughter. To me, it epitomises the perfect family. Almost every time I peep into their home, there’s such harmony. I don’t expect it to be the perfect family, but it’s a symbol of the simple domesticity that most people crave and few are lucky to possess. An everyday scene from their house would be such: Grandma and daughter-in-law (I’m assuming she isn’t their daughter) tinker around the kitchen, preparing dinner, grandpa’s sitting in a chair in the bedroom next to the window, reading a book while he has his thick glasses on, his son is walking to and fro in the living room as part of the daily exercise routine, his little daughter watches TV and her older brother sits at the table, doing his homework. Today, the daughter-in-law is in the kitchen, preparing hot tea that seems necessary and most welcome on such a rainy day, grandpa’s reading a book as usual. The others? Can’t see them.
In the house next door, the TV’s on, uncle’s watching the news channel. I wonder if he’s looking out for warnings about the rain. Expecting a repeat like last year’s deluge perhaps? I wonder if he’s the same man who practices his classical singing every morning. I heard he’s very good, and only trains the really talented.
Below his window, there seems to be no activity. There’s a table right next to the window, it’s always cluttered with things. For some reason, I’ve always wondered if a painter lives in that house. Not good enough to be an artist maybe. But a good painter nonetheless.
Now, below that window, the old lady who lives in that ground floor apartment comes to the window as she pushes at the curtain to take a look at the downpour. I wonder if she too worries about the rain. Is someone from her family outside? Stuck in traffic? Swamped at work?
I glance at the balcony on the fourth floor. It’s strange, their living room is completely empty, save for a table and a few chairs from what I can see, but they still have a satellite dish installed in their balcony. They must really enjoy their television.
There’s a car parked outside the building entrance. A young girl, probably in her early teens, a little plump, wearing a pink t-shirt and black pants rolled up to a little below the knees, steps out. Her hair is already wet. She stands next to the car, a smile on her face as she spreads her arms by her sides and looks up towards the sky. I smile enviously. I’m sure she’s laughing. She whirls around twice, arms still outstretched. She’s barefoot, and stepping in puddles. An old lady with a slight frame comes out of the entrance, she smiles at the girl I assume to be her granddaughter. She looks a little wary of the rain as she clutches her umbrella a bit tighter. Another woman follows her out. She’s wearing a nice peach coloured salwar kameez and black high heels. I expect her to stop and join the old lady in looking at her daughter, but she surprises me by stepping out in the rain, mirroring her daughter’s actions. I can’t suppress my laughter, as I look on with a mix of joy, envy and admiration for that middle-aged woman. So much for propriety! The woman spreads her arms out as well, giggling with her daughter. She’s half-wet unlike her daughter, who’s soaked to the bone. This whole event seemed to have lasted maybe two, three minutes, before they all went back in, still smiling.
So there it is, just another rainy day. Probably just one among dozens of similar days, but still special. It feels good to be home.