Monsoon rains are as unpredictable as moody infants. The sky turns overcast within a few minutes, a light gale blows and these changes in the weather are either followed by a heavy downpour or a drizzle that continuously changes its intensity. Add to this, the distinctive feature of rain falling in patches. I have observed it myself that it is often raining in one part of the city, while the very next area is completely dry and unaffected by it, with the sun shining brightly and people going about their business casually and unhindered.
This recent Saturday, I was travelling on the Orange Train, gazing at the grey sky and the moving traffic through the window. Till Chauburji, there was not a single drop of rain. In the meantime, I received a call from a friend enrolled at one of the many universities on The Mall and was informed that it was raining where I was headed. It was just a matter of minutes before I got off at GPO and emerged from the underground station to feel drops of drizzle on my face and smell the earthy fragrance that follows rain. Perfect olfactory bliss indeed!
The first thought that occupied my mind was to enter a nearby café, sit where I could watch the rain, order a cup of tea or coffee and read for a while. Instantly, my mood shifted and I opted to experience the city's raw moments up close. I was not far from Old Anarkali. A four minute brisk walk took me to a crowded tea stall inside the bazaar. It was not a day to have tea alone, so almost everyone there had ordered either samosas or pakoras along with it. I simply followed suit and ate a samosa with a hot cup of tea. Sitting under the tea shop's canopy, in the company of fellow tea drinkers, the taste of tea increased manyfold when it was accompanied by Bollywood songs.
An uncle in his early seventies had played Kishore Kumar's sad score, "Mere Naina Saawan Bhadon Phir Bhi Mera Man Pyaasa", on his keypad phone. He was holding the device in his left hand, keeping it aloft and close to his ear. With the other hand, he poured tea into the saucer and slurped it down. Every note of the song made his eyebrows knit together and deepened the wrinkles on his small forehead, hinting that he might be diving back into the past and remembering someone he had once held close to his heart. The tea ended before the song and he rose from his seat, handing two folded currency notes to the man sitting at the counter. The speaker of his phone was still glued to his ear as he disappeared into the rain.
The distinctive feature of rain falling in patches. I have observed it myself that it is often raining in one part of the city, while the very next area is completely dry and unaffected by it.
Just like tea makers, people in the frying business thrive when it rains. No matter what time of the day, the sudden change in the weather makes many Lahorites yearn for chatpatti, flavourful food. A similar rush of customers could be witnessed at Riaz Halwa Puri's shop.
Young boys and girls, who had stopped by the shop in groups, had ordered samosas and chole bhature and were waiting for their turn. With a slight movement of his head and eyes, Hassan, the owner, signalled to Nadeem, a worker at the setup, to tear open more packets and add oil to the large metal woks so that more customers could be served at a time. During all this, the snack maker fried samosas on a low flame, flipping them from time to time to achieve their signature crispy, golden brown crust. Like Amitabh in Ganga Ki Saugandh, he had tied a headband and was in his element. Perhaps he had joined only recently because I was seeing him for the first time. Nadeem told me that the new recruit was newly married and had started working there a few weeks earlier. Much like the others, the snack maker was lost in his own world. His smartphone rested on a wooden rack with the song "Sawan Aaya Hai" playing on it. He subtly grooved to the lyrics, "Tere Aur Mere Milne Ka Mausam Aaya Hai."
I was about to move past the eatery when a couple, drenched in the rain, arrived on a motorbike from the Nabha Road side. The woman wanted to eat something but the man did not seem willing to stop. She complained in a high pitched voice, "Kadi tussi meri gal manni vi ae?" (Have you ever honoured my wish?) and made a rather sulky face. I thought the man might not give in.I was wrong. While I was passing by Waris Tikka Shop, I looked back and saw him park his bike near the same eatery.
As these ethereal moments went by, life seemed to slip through my hands like sand. Every rainy moment deserved to be lived to the fullest, and I did exactly that. Witnessing Lahore in the rain was a pure delight. I walked back to the station under the open sky, letting the rain soak my hair, shirt and soul.