The little boy

The rain was heavy. The clouds hung low and were pregnant with monsoon water. They were giving birth to it. The winds were spry and light. The water splashing everywhere. Cars trudged along, water sloshing in their wake and around them. They were half submerged. Water around the engines, the steam forming around the hood. Sprays and splashes on the windshields. Wipers working overtime. Up, down. Up, down. Clearing away the congestion of water on the glass eyes of the car, only to have more. More than they could clear. But enough to be able to squint and make it through. The deluge was loud. Obnoxious almost. But nature can never be. It was soothing, lilting. Exciting. Blood rushing through the skin, eyes glancing with wonder. Except they weren’t. For some. In a car sat two boys. One on his gameboy, the other looking out the window without seeing. A father sat driving amidst the horns behind and in front and to either side. A mother stated out forlornly. Complete and utter silence.

The rain crashed outside, urging them to wake up. To see it’s beauty, to appreciate its power, to be wary of its threat. Nothing. Silence in the car, looks that were not looking.

The boy played on his gameboy. Unbeknownst to him, these would be some of the happiest memories of his life. His life would not be sad. It would be like everyone else’s. Normal. Ups and downs, like the peaks and troughs on a heart rate machine. Beep, beep. But these simple moments, as dull as they might look from the outside, they would be beautiful. Enshrined in his memory forever.

That little boy was me.

Quiet time spent with family. Not awkward. Not for me. Just silent. All together. When there were four. Before there were five. Before there were many others. Just the four of us. It was when we lived in an area of the city, with a big house, with a huge lawn, the area wasn’t as posh, but this was my family house. Dada Abu’s house. Dada abu and dado lived here. My dad and our family lived upstairs. And in the other half of our upstairs apartment lived my taya Abu and his family.

That little boy was me. 

This area wasn’t posh. The streets didn’t have proper drainage. If I were to open the door of the car, the water would rush in, until it was at the level of my bottom on the seats. I could roll down the window, and touch the surface of the water without having to stretch.

But this is one of my happiest memories. Peaceful silence. My pokemon game. My family. My favorite weather. It’s funny the things we remember. I haven’t recalled it much. I haven’t retold it much. And in that avarice - of keeping it to myself - I hope I have preserved this memory in its true form. I hope I have not altered it. Because I would like to enjoy something without exaggerating it, unbeknownst to me.

That little boy was me.

That little boy was very happy.