Bucket, Kanniya Hot Springs, Trinco
Lately it’s either hot or pissing down rain. I mean hot like soup and rain like reign. The thunder sounds like artillery, cascades like sheets over the windshield. I turn the blades off to see what happens. The car is underwater. I’m seeing fish and shit. I remember monsoons as a kid, water up to the wheel wells, saris splashing in the rain. But I don’t think it was this time of year. The gods must be crazy. Then you come out of the rain and it’s just hot, a heavy humid hot you can feel. Feels like the inside of my mouth, but it’s all over my skin. I feel like walking around town in my underwear. I feel like bathing in the intersection. I envy the slum kids, wearing nothing but black thread. Rain or shine, they’re doing fine.
It’s too hot to work, it’s too hot to have sex. I just want to lie in bed with ice around my neck. Then every night, like clockwork, it rains. The sky is grey, pregnant, wet. Lightning pervades the atoms for seconds and disappears. The drops hammer awnings and roofs (rooves?), sounding like an assault. I’ve never heard rain so loud. It knocks down some branches and divides the road into navigable tranches. Then it’s gone. The evaporation is a vacation, but soon it’s back to the heat.
I’m done with this shit. I’m going to the village and having a bath at the well.