Urvashi

The chilly breeze that Sunday morning was a harsh reminder of the impending storm. The fallen leaves swirled in frantic circles, whistling an undistinguished tune. The trees rustled, the birds chirped, frightened. The dogs howled, quick to hide their tails between their legs. Window panes began to rattle and potted plants made their first attempts at flying. Mud was strewn across carefully manicured lawns; broken pieces of clay littered the recently swept road. And for the first time I found myself amidst mayhem: Absolute, inevitable mayhem. Tornadoes weren’t uncommon. But rewind three minutes. An investment banker who led a busy, busy life, found that very Sunday morning to be one of those rare, free, sunny ones and decided to paint his front door red; the front door that stood a few feet away from me. But soon enough began the breeze, the swirling leaves, the rustling trees, the frightened, chirping birds, the howling dogs, the flying plants. And he was given a gentle taster of the tornado that would be upon him in a matter of seconds. Beer, paint brush and can of paint in hand he began to run. Like the devil. No sooner had he set foot on the pavement than he ran straight into me, drenching me in cold, wet, red paint.

In skies high above, fortunate enough to be an objective observer of such frenzied activity, sat God, in his front row seat, and decided in that moment that I looked better red. Cold, wet and red. And so I forever stayed.


Next to a post-box