Close to reality


Even the rain, so typical and so patly conforming to a stereotype of England the non-English assiduously propagate, begins to irritate him, with its in-between status. It is neither the obliterating deluge of the Calcutta monsoon, nor the obliging short bursts of a life-giving natural force after an arid summer. All those cliches about the English climate trotted out by friends, their parents, and anybody who knew someone who had visited England, had only bored him. He had been prepared to deal with this skewed vision of the perfectly rainy land; after all, he had lived with rain for the four months of monsoon every year, for twenty-two years. After that, the English rain could only be a gentle variation in a minor key.

But nothing had prepared him for this. It is a variation, all right, but muffled. For most of the time, it is not the actual physical thing, the element of water, which he experiences, but the intent to rain, a sort of pervasive threat in the dead gunmetal skies. He doesn’t understand how it is possible, this excess of wetness without downpour. It is in England he first encounters the infinite nuances of drizzle: soft spitting, a spattering of directionless spray blown by the wind here and there, sometimes a thinning out of even that insubstantial spume till there is nothing but wet jewels in the hair. At times, the stronger drizzle eventually gathers enough critical mass to reach down to his scalp and trickle coldly down. That is an unpleasant moment.

Than there are changing dramas of the different darkenings of the sly, each one with it’s own subtle warning of imminent rain. The rain mostly never falls, and when it does, the end precipitation is never commensurate with the fear contained in the threat of the changeable clouds. It is all very disappointing, and ultimately irritating, this long play of umbrous forms and shades between the potential and its fitful realization. Part of his impatience lies in the fact that he begins to appreciate this miniature drama of deferral.”

„A life apart” – Neel Mukherjee


De ce am scris asta? Pentru ca nu am gasit o descriere mai buna, care sa se potriveasca atat de bine, cu realitatea. Asa e vremea in Anglia 🙂