I am a rainy day day man.
Every time it rains, I find myself walking, rather hopping-and-a-jumping, on the sunny side of the street. The traditional rains-and-blues association just doesn’t work for me. I think it’s a western concept anyway, conceived in and for European countries that are supposedly cold, and damp, and foggy.
On rainy days such as this, my Poppins (Poppins is the term of endearment I use for my yellow wagon R, that looks absolutely edible, like some candy, hence the name) and I paint the town yellow, with music blaring high up on the car stereo. If it’s a familiar album, like Metallica’s ‘Black Album’, I sing (or growl) along to the best of my ability. And if it has been bought recently, something I do as frequently as I can (like this new album by ‘The Killers’ that’s getting rave reviews, which, I think, are mostly baseless hype, for it’s not THAT good), I try to soak my brains in it. I try to judge it, review it, and decide whether it deserves to be played on days like these. So if you’re looking to bring me down (why would you now, but say, if you did), days like this would be a bad bad choice. For it’s hard to get me depressed when I’m drenched in music and the streets are drenched in rain.
So children, if you are in Delhi, and it’s raining, and you stumble upon a strange looking man (even stranger now with goatee-sans-moustache) who, while driving, seems to be screaming on the top of his lungs, with the windows pulled up, you know you’ve spotted the Rainman. Me.