As I transferred my keys, wallet, cell phone charger, a small zip lock bag with some medicine, and the remainder of stuff from my daily bag pack to my travel bag, I wondered how often I use any of these. I have done this wondering enough times to realize that it is a way for me to procrastinate. The thing is, I fall in love with the status quo so often that I trick myself in many ways to resist change. Even small changes like getting off the bed. Even the ones that I look forward to. I have found myself dwelling on random thoughts instead of heading home from the hospital at times. But that is a story for another day.
Today, I was going to NJ to spend my week off at Samu's. To no one's surprise, I did not use any of those transferred stuff—until after six days, on my return home. As I got off the bus from the Old Bridge to the Port Authority, I remembered Einstein: Time is indeed relative; my off-week finishes a bit too fast.
The privilege of living in the modern world is such that I worry about the rain only after I get off the train and before I reach the bus stand. The number 2 train stopped at Pelham Parkway for just enough time for me to get off. I don't remember if this is the first rain this year. As I carefully walk down the wet stairs, a young boy rushes past me as his mom shouts, "Stop! Don't get wet!" It was a brisk reminder that I enjoyed rain, too. I wonder when rain stops being fun and starts being a hurdle to get to work.
Probably the only use of my high school physics daily, I love to angle my umbrella to optimize its aerodynamics. Testament to my lack of deeper understanding of that very phenomenon was on my hands that day. Before I reached the bus stand, I had to dump my broken umbrella in the trash.
I stepped on the bus, dodging the wet umbrellas of people whose knowledge of aerodynamics was way better than mine. An old lady looked at my wet jacket and commented, "Forgot to carry an umbrella, huh?" Pleasantly startled that we still have these rare gems of a species among us who speak to strangers instead of looking at their phones, I nodded and smiled. She got off the bus at the next station—two more for me. I was probably just missing my trusty umbrella that the gush of the wind so brutally murdered. That and the fact that I belong to the generation who retains the ability to reciprocate pleasantries with strangers but aren't brave enough to initiate one—I started writing on my phone:
What an incredible little thing an umbrella is! It probably is the most poetic thing that exists. I like a Nepali poem, one stanza of which roughly translates as:
"If I have to get torn, I'd rather be the cover of a book. If I have to get wet, I'd rather be an umbrella."
I only remember transferring my umbrella to this bag. I must have been carrying this umbrella for a long time. I sure did not think if it was in my backpack as I opened it below that train station. We have an umbrella with us almost as insurance. I let my umbrella burden me with its weight for so long, hoping it would serve me one day. And what a service; it gets wet to keep me dry. When the rain stops, or you get inside, the useful umbrella burdens you again. This time, even more—a price you pay for the service. There is another Nepali poem I love, an excerpt of which probably translates as:
"Some difficulties are necessary for us to avoid difficulties. Take your umbrella with you; it might rain today."
" Please use rear doors to exit," the bus notified me as I pressed the red stop button. I was about to get off when a young girl promptly exclaimed, "Hey, your umbrella!" Not mine; I broke mine," I replied.