It was a windy day. Not the kind of wind that penetrates your bone with cold, but the one that brings a warmth with it. Like the warmth of a tear drop sliding down your cheek. Momentary. And the next instant, it is all cold again.
The wind almost took the rain away with it. Luckily, it couldn’t.
I sat on the balcony and looked at the road as if I were at a theatre, waiting for the movie to start playing on the white screen. The gutters on the road filled their hungry bellies with rain drops.
A truck stopped right in front of our house. It was carrying a group of migrant workers. Each head was wrapped in a cloth. And, each head had a different colour.
Red. Pink. Yellow. Blue.
They looked like colourful balloons. Drenched, colourful balloons, waiting for someone to cut their strings so that they could fly away.
They jumped down, one by one. Then walked away in the same direction like a disciplined herd.
An old man passed by slowly, holding an umbrella. A street dog followed him, without any.
They were not in a rush to reach anywhere. They just kept moving.
The man, slowly swinging his hands, and the dog, wagging its tail. Strangely matching the rain’s rhythm.
Farrokhzad and Kiarostami were right—the wind will carry us.
So does the rain.
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