Dreadfully average's rainy marigold day

WRITERS JOURNAL

Dreadfully average's rainy marigold day


Then, the four blue walls of the room began to close in on her, and she was trapped in the gloomy confines of the room once more. Her heart sank. Her marks. They were unsatisfactory.

They weren’t bad – they could have been much worse, but they weren’t very good either. They were just average.

Dreadfully average.

The bell rang, and the prayer began and ended. A sea of schoolchildren poured out the classroom and her friends swarmed around her like flies.

She looked away from them limply, and they understood that she wanted to be alone.
She watched the clouds sending down the raindrops steadily and in quick succession like bullets.

The school ground wasn’t empty. Colourful umbrellas and raincoats shielded the children from the battering rain as they ran helter-skelter across the slush.

Parents looking for their offspring scuttled around like worried hens, unmindful of their dripping wet clothes.

The leaves flapped furiously in the wind, trying desperately to shake off the heavy, wet raindrops that beat down upon them steadily.

Only the teachers marched on mechanically, their staid black umbrellas sheltering them from the raindrops that went pitter-patter as they made contact with the hard nylon.

On the road, vans, autos, scooters, cars and buses honked, sputtered, screeched and whirred.

Cars brandished their sword-like wipers which went swish-swish across the rain- streaked windows.

Pedestrians who had been caught unawares by the unsurprisingly unpredictable Indian monsoon stood under shop roofs and bus-stands, envying those who had had enough foresights to carry umbrellas.

Vendors of jasmine and marigold in thin, flowery saris sat under blue synthetic tarpaulins, surveying the world around them with an almost cynical air.

Evening joggers sought shelter in tea stalls that seemed to mushroom every evening, swapping stories and sipping chai.

Only she trudged through the slush slowly and dolefully, wallowing in self-pity; oblivious to the ever-changing, ever-moving world around her.  

A bright red car, probably an I10 whizzed past her, peppering her with fat wet raindrops.
She shook off the water, and looked at the world around her with renewed interest.  The rain cast a spell on the whole world. The whole world was bustling with activity, refusing to remain dormant for even a second. People moved along with the monsoon, and by doing so, they were able to forget themselves, i.e. when it was raining there was no time to think of anything else.

All she would have to do was to follow the rhythm of the rain, and everything would be alright.

So she found herself listening to the rhythmic pitter-patter of the falling rain, and it was telling her that there was no time to think of anything else.

There was no time to think if she wanted to catch up with the swiftly moving world. There was no time to feel average.

No time to feel dreadfully average.

A smile brightened her face, and she ran to catch up with her friends.

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