Austin and Mumbai

When I first came to Austin, my first thought was -- it's nothing like Mumbai. I came in August, peak of the Mumbai monsoons, and had in fact left my city when it was in the throes of a full-fledged downpour, which was threatening to flood the city. And when I walked out into sunny, hot Austin, my one thought was -- I'll never see a downpour again. I was, of course, affected by my firm belief that Texas is a desert, and sees maybe an inch of rainfall in five years. How mistaken I was!
This entire summer it has rained, and rained, and rained some more. In fact, I think it has rained more in Austin than it has in Mumbai! Well...maybe not. But close to it! It's as if the city is determined to make my summer another Mumbai monsoon. I don't mind! I love the rains (something that has, not on few occasions, got me weird glances from others), and would never complain about the fact that it doesn't seem to have stopped raining in Austin since winter. And when it rains, it rains with fury -- wind howls around, and the force of the water hitting you is painful.
Like yesterday, for instance. It rained and rained, and I was soaked to the skin by the time I got home. As I wrung the water out of my sodden ponytail, my one thought was -- it's Mumbai, all over again. There were muddy puddles all over the place, and I groaned when I walked into one. The chilly water soaked into my socks, and wearing wet socks is the most awful sensation ever. Cars whizzed by the road, spraying a fine mist of water into the air. It would've looked pretty, had not a part of it fallen all over me.
There were a couple of miserable people waiting at the bus stop. One of them was a tiny, tiny woman, maybe four feet tall? She was all bundled up in a shapeless overcoat, and hugged the collar closer to her face to avoid getting the rain on her face, I suppose. She gave everyone baleful glances, but I suppose it's hard to blame her -- I feel pretty short-tempered myself when I'm soaked and cold. There was also a sleepy-looking man, who didn't seem to be bothered much by the rain. He wore a tattered old jacket, and steady rivulets of water ran down him. His wispy white hair was matted to his skull. I guess the three of us made quite a sight! I buried myself in the songs on my iPod to avoid paying attention to the cold water than was running down my spine. Not a very nice sensation!
I remember a similar situation in Mumbai. There were five of us at the bus-stop. There was me, two college girls, an old lady, and a young man who looked like a ruffian. The five of us stood under out respective umbrellas or shelters, vainly trying to shelter from the fury of the rain. I was more worried about my assignment in my backpack, which, I was sure, was getting soggy in the water. The two girls next to me were cursing the rain, and looking vainly up the road to see if the bus was nearby. They would now and then burst into laughter as they discussed something, but would fall silent again, and search for the bus on the horizon. The old lady was bent over with age, and clutched an umbrella in her thin, claw-like hand. Wispy white hair hung down her head, and the pallu of her sari (the part that hangs down the shoulder) was dripping with water. The young ruffian didn't even have an umbrella. He had a sheet of some kind held over his head, and didn't seem to mind the cold water that dripped all around (and all over) him. He squatted on the ground, getting up at intervals to check for the imminent arrival of the bus. He seemed to be in good humor, though -- occasionally he would crack a grin (though I never found out why), showing tobacco-stained teeth. Then he would resume his vigil of checking whether the bus was coming. The five of us stood silently, never speaking to the other one, yet, perhaps, silently commiserating with the others.
It was a similar situation I encountered yesterday. At times like these, I don't feel homesick at all! Austin's become my home away from home.