Monday, September 3, 2012

Friends to FB to friends again.

Would not love to hide that I have never hated work as much as I hate not having any. With my organisation not being able to provide me even mundane excel jobs, I can fathom the disappointments of IT people on bench. Lack of work, I have begun to feel, can either kill all your aspirations or frustrate to you to the extent where you start seeing meaning of your life. I am still to make out which phase I have reached. 

Past two years have not been really easy on me particularly on my ability to connect with people. I excel in connecting with people through sports, through my likes and dislikes and through my ability to listen and respect. I have befriended people on the TT table, in cricket fields, on tennis court, in swimming pools, in DTC buses, in metros - everywhere. Somehow I was losing that ability. My present organisation seems to have robbed me of every such opportunity. Despite adding 800 people to my friend list on the Facebook in little less than 2 years, I have been feeling guilty of letting go of  400 others already on my list. From friends they were  beginning to become a facebook friend. I wasn't exactly too happy with this. As if our lives are already not too virtual that you would want to have virtual or so called FB friends. 

Some of my friends have grown away from me physically, others mentally as well. Some I do not disturb, others prefer not to disturb me.  Some have persistently kept following me despite my shameless ignores and I really seek their forgiveness for once and ever. Others, I have pursued with little success. Tit for tat, I believe. Some are just birthday friends. I call them on their birthday and they call me on mine with little interaction in between. With still others, I have been able to strike just the right chords. 

Never been a very huge fan of social networking sites. I mostly work on it in read-only mode with very little modification rights. I do stealthily frequent it, but mostly to have a peep into others' lives rather than share my own. But what I do admire about Facebook and other networking sites is their ability to provide a platform to help people re-connect. Networking is an overemphasized word in management. Plain meaningless networking. But RECONNECTING is what I was looking for.

This brief stretch of worklessness had a sliver lining though. It  brought along TIME - huge swathes of uninterrupted free time to sit back and connect - once again. Time aplenty to feel lost and savor moments and relationships. My old memories needed some cleaning to be done  and I was game for it.  

With plenty of free time (and internet connection ) and a deliberate attempt to mellow down some of my more abusive and complaining friends, I have taken a fancy for Facebook. I have been able to connect with friends across the globe belonging to different stages of my life. I have talked to and chatted with people I never thought I would on this side of the grave at least. Importantly, I felt  friendship once again create ripples in my heart. Pretty nice feeling that is, I tell you. 

Only the last day I met a friend belonging to the most memorable phase of my life. 15 years, it has been since I saw him. 15 hours, I thought, it would take us to start treating each other as friends once again. 15 minutes, I believed, would be required for ice-breaking. Seconds it took us. 15 in all. Not an Hi, not a wave of hands, not a hand-shake, just a hug and we had already reconnected. There was no need to ask anything. There was no need to speak anything.  He resonated feelings I associated with him and I could palpably walk on the bridge being constructed backwards. There was so much we had missed in each others' lives but not a moment was wasted complaining. The memories of moments we had lived together were too sweet too be soured by complaints of inaction. We chatted away as if  these fifteen years never existed and no water, not even a drop, had passed under the bridge. Secrets were slipping out of my tongue and settling somewhere else. I could talk to him things I would  hide to myself. We had started learning TT together. We were doubles partners in TT and it was only befitting that we met on the TT table. The ping-pong ball was symbolic of the turnings of a time machine which had once again catapulted us to the world we could not ever stop living. 

Contented, I feel  today but I am far from done. I hope to reach out to all the people who have made my life the way it is today. I do not just want to look back and enjoy, I want to re-live those moments once again with the people who had made those moments. 

All the best Amigos.

Monday, August 20, 2012

It was a woman

In the quiet of Sunday’s afternoon, we were perhaps the only people who had nothing meaningful to do. As the lazy afternoon dripped still lazily into a listless evening, we (my friend and flatmate and I) were getting too bored of our virtual world. So we  set out to take a stock of the world and headed to the only worldly place in our home – our balcony. It overlooks a society road and doesn’t seem too satisfied having been a mute spectator to Delhi's changing landscape both physically and morally. Now it does have three more people to share its grief with, at least occasionally.
Looking at close to 60-70 cars parked in front of less than 20 houses on a rather deserted road but for a couple, we wondered if having an underground multi-level parking for each road in a residential society made any business sense. We agreed on the contrary though, thinking more parking space would mean more cars on the road and far quicker our ultimate destruction. That is how most of our discussions end. We love status quo.  

Closer home from the far lands of dreams, idealism and laptops, a story was unfolding right beneath our noses to which, intentionally or unintentionally, we were to become a part of. It did not attract our attention at first for there isn't a day when C-block Malviya Nagar does not wake up seeing two of its beloved sons entangled in a fight about something none of them own – a parking space. It would be tough to find a house in Delhi with proper parking facilities. Roads, hai na? They believe just hanging a board saying “No parking” or “Reserved Parking Space” gives them the right to (mis)appropriate government property and treat it as their own fiefdom. Delhi government would do well to act upon its notification of not registering a vehicle unless the owner showed a permanent parking space. But this couple standing near their car on the road looked in a spot of bother.

Apparently, they were waiting for someone and talked in hushed tone. They looked in their late twenties and were, perhaps, unmarried. We were perched right in front of them and they did, intermittently, look at what we were looking at. They, we felt, were stuck and needed some help. Not gathering enough courage to talk to us the boy got into his car and was trying to steer his way through two other parked cars. One, a red Maruti swift, was parked rather appropriately while the other, a silver Maruti Ritz, had been callously abandoned in the middle, yes in the middle, of the road. The sun was not being kind to them either. The girl, clad in a light pink suit, looked pretty and traditionally-modern. She was trying to help navigate their car through a slight opening but quickly gave up. She did not look comfortable a wee bit perhaps mindful of two sets of prying eyes and muted chuckles.

Honestly though, she had not been a part of our discussion till then and definitely not from a “save a damsel in distress” point of view. What amused us more was the foolhardiness even to attempt getting out of that narrow opening in reverse gear. For a moment I thought, Aman could do this but then I thought of the Great Greater Noida Expressway and I quickly dispelled the thought. 

He, on the other hand, kept trying and he would have succeeded if Maruti Altos were to come six inches thinner. A bright idea for Maruti to latch on to. Irritated he came out and tried pushing the Ritz but the it would not leave its ground. Either it was still in gear or had its hand brakes on. He  looked up to us rather expectantly; his eyes seeking help this time. But he decided against it perhaps looking at the company he had and scared by our broadening grins. 

Meanwhile as shameless Delhi citizens we fixed our stare on to them looking indifferent. My friend said…”help to hum das bar kar de…per koi bole to sahi. Age badh kar leader ban ne ka shaukh nahi hai hame”. They did seem to be in some hurry and all we had was abundant time. He once again started frantically walking across the road while the girl chose to stand facing away from us, a little perturbed and embarrassed with all the unwanted attention she was being showered with.

As my friend and I chatted away on their plight, we let out a generous dose of expletives for the Ritz’s owner who had thought that the only appropriate place to park a vehicle is right in the center of the road.  We could see his point though as all parking spaces had already been taken. He could have thought, we thought, that it would not take him more than a minute and he would be back before it even gets noticed. Else, we thought, the owner may not at all be a “He”. This definitely looked more probable. Our sympathy for the couple was intensifying. 

Indeed, the owner did turn out to be a woman eventually but you need to bear with me till I pull down the curtains on it.

He returned a couple of minutes later and saw us transfixed to our position and still staring in their direction and smiling. He went ahead to whisper something into his (girl) friend’s ears and off she headed towards the car. Wow, we thought, now the girl was going to try her hand at the steering wheel. Instead, to our utter surprise, she took the navigator’s seat and did not come out till they finally found their way out. We reasoned  out that it made sense for a caring boyfriend to keep evil eyes off her girlfriend and a heeding girl in tacit consent chose to oblige. Perfect for Huma Qureshi, I believe. She was right in indicating that dekhne se pahle hamein permison lena chahiye tha na. Only God and we know what we were looking at.

The distrust shown further fortified our shamelessness and we decided against budging an inch. Our hearts which had begun to show pity on their plight deep froze once again. He once again looked at us but the stern and unapproachable look on our face dissuaded him from making any further advances. He kept walking around and ultimately caught hold of a person who seemed to dwell in the same locality. After listening to his saga, he, the new entrant, took it as his moral responsibility to help them. He came right to us and asked, “Yeh red swift aapki hai?”. Had it been a Honda Civic, I might have said yes.  I have grown quite combative these days and taken a liking to arguing with auto drivers. I was so peeved at the idiotic question that I was about to say Yes. Could not these people realize, I thought,  that I would have helped them long ago if that were to be my car. I quickly rectified my answer to reply in negative. 

Remember that silver colored Maruti Ritz! It is still regally perched on the center of the road. It has been at least 25 minutes since and we still had no information whatsoever about its rightful owner. My friend suggested that a terrorist could have wantonly planted it there. We had a fleeting thought about calling the police. That would have given an interesting twist to the story, wouldn’t it? But it was not to be. A couple of more people joined the melee on the road and it promised an interesting showdown. But as it normally happens people were happier to recount their own tales rather than look for a solution. Growing restless I yelled from the balcony, “aap log 5 log ho, Ritz ko aage se utha kar side mein kar do”. My friend concurred saying that is how vehicles are towed away. But they never heeded to it. 

Finally, the newcomer was able to locate the owner of the red swift. He turned out to be living right above our flat. He walked on to his balcony and casually leant against it without any intention or urgency to get down on to the road. I do not what he was thinking but we thought it to be the height of callousness. The boy expectantly looked at the man above our balcony with a pleading face and imploring eyes.

Tailor made for a hero to make entry, right? Just that our Hero is a she. Pat came Her Highness walking in all her propriety and regal candor in measured steps; the Queen and the owner of Maruti Ritz. My friend and I had a hearty laugh on our prediction getting correct. We thought, this lady is going to get a mouthful today. We were all ears as the discussion turned into a heady altercation. The crowd yelled in unison at sheer dumbness. A sardar ji also trudged along to provide some comic relief. We were definitely on the edge as the tense climax drew near.

I saw the boy get animated but his voice soon fizzled out like a damp squib. Did we hear them right? We could not believe our ears. Her royal highness was making her point gently and slowly the crowd concurred and began to find more sense in her words. The lady was pointing out that that she had strategically placed her car on the road so as to block his exit. This guy, she was saying, had been parking his car on a daily basis on her main exit. And would you believe it, this lady, even had some space in her home earmarked for parking. She did not claim the space outside her house as rightfully hers but complained of being denied what was legally hers. The boy appeared dumbstruck. 

I do not know about that boy and the girl but we were definitely ashamed thinking that in Delhi you do not have people with right scruples and definitely not a parking space at their place. We were delighted to think that she did that just to teach someone a lesson. I definitely grew more and more appreciative of her and felt guilty at heart at my prejudices.
Standing on the balcony, I have witnessed many an incidents which have ranged from being mundane to hilarious but none like this which sent all my prediction abilities and my pride in doing so for a toss. In the melting pot of Delhi’s belly where two extreme societies merge and thrive, such incidents unfold with elan every day. I was just lucky to be a part of one.

Till we meet, Hasta la vista.

Sunday, April 26, 2009

My "Hi-friend"

It is 9:50 early in the morning and I am all decked up to leave for office. With laptop hanging by my side, I set out for my destination. The bus stop where I take a cab to my office is some 8-9 minutes walk from my balcony-less abode. Getting down the flight of stairs I fish for my mobile in my pocket. Finding it, I take it out and excitedly dial a number. Traveling some 1000 kms my call finally rings a bell which my mother has been earnestly waiting for. In no time a very normal mother-son interaction ensues. By that time I have covered some 300 meters in close to 3 minutes. The autowalahs, the ricksahwalahs, the thelawalas all seem busy catering to their customers. The morning sun is spreading its pleasant warmth. I look at the Sun, the way Sachin does before beginning his innings and after completing a milestone and seek his blessings. Yes even I cross a milestone everyday, the one erected along the roads. In fact I cross two of them daily. Since Sachin's name has surfaced, let me wish him many many happy returns of the day from all the people who would have the pleasure of reading this blog. Honks, horns, cries, whimpers, yells, and bells; I can hear them all. Head-butting against the stairs of the two temples on my way, I think of the just one thing. Why this rush at the temples? Aren't we supposed to have taken the path to moral decadence with gay abandon? There is only one explanation I give myself. Either the world is reclaiming the path to righteousness or the people throng there to seek forgiveness in advance for the evils they are likely to perpetrate in the hours to follow. Someone there says "Sai Ram", I ignore him for he is seemingly all too capable to be sitting there and expecting alms. As I take a few more steps, I reach a T-point to the left of which is a 500 meter long stretch and which, arguably, is the most enjoyable part of my journey. To the left is a confectionery shop where I buy my morning breakfast; a sandwich. The frail looking uncle sitting there once told me, "beta khud aakar wahan se sandwich le lo". And these days, I just enter the shop, get to the other side of the counter, pick up a sandwich and hand over the money to the uncle. Everyone else there have their eyes popping out in surprise.

My mother has the whole world to talk about. I do not know where does she get so much to speak about day after day. In close to 9 minutes conversation that we have, my airtime is at most a minutes. And I tend to expend the entire airtime allotted to me in the first 2 minutes of our conversation. So when I am on this stretch, I am usually just doing "haan, haan". Listening. Hearning to be precise. But nothing beats the pleasure of listening to your mother even if she is talking about what she talked to the maid of a neighbour who only recently moved in and about whom you have no inkling at all. In the meantime I say "Hi" to a girl. I call her the "Hi girl". We have a strange kind of relation. I do not know her. She doesn't know me either. But we HI each other with a broad smile on our faces. All I know about her is that she is always clad in a suit, preferably a pink or a blue one. She is a beautiful girl in her early twenties and a very attractive one at that. There is one similarity that we share and that is what made us "HI friends". Whenever we meet we are always busy on our phones.

Just like me she is deep into her conversation for the entire stretch. She is usually not all laughter but an innocently cute smile keeps playing on her face. We unfailing meet in this stretch and as we draw closer to each other a muted HI with a restrained waving of hands greets me. My smile broadens as I say HI and wave my hands. We move forward. That is not all. There is just a little more to our Hi-friendship. I turn back to find her turning back as well. We share another round of smiles and proceed ahead. And that is all for the day. The best thing about our friendship is that I do not think about her. Out of sight and out of mind she is. I never ever encounter her when I return from my office for I return at odd hours. But whenever I find myself alone on that stretch of the road, she crosses my mind and thinking of her smile I smile to myself. Meanwhile I haven’t heard anything my mother has had to say. But her stories are like Bollywood movies, you can understand everything even if you miss everything.

As I was walking down the same stretch of road at around 7: 50 this Sunday evening, I heard a “Hi”. It was her. In a pink suit again but looking refreshingly beautiful. I dedicate this blog to my Hi-friend. It is only her inspiration that I sat down to write this blog.

Have a happy time my friend, ALWAYS

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

An ode!!!!!

When loneliness accompanies you to dreamland,
To a star less sky in the midst of sand.
Where the moon stands sentry, all bright and gold,
Therein resides in repose, the beauty to behold.

Where the breeze rushes to seek her presence,
Where the rain beats down to wet her essence.
Where the flowers sway craving for her fold,
Therein resides in repose, the beauty to behold.

Where the birds chirp drunk on her fragrance,
Where the milieu smells heavy of her innocence.
Where the heart frequents stories unheard, untold,
Therein resides in repose, the beauty to behold.

With bated breath I wait, skipping countless beats,
Another moment, another life, I live through deaths,
The wind has her, the trees have her, even the sky, the ground,
But nowhere is she to be seen, nowhere is she to be found.

In a blitz, dark goes the robe of night,
Magically rises the mist with darker insight,
The moon plays truant, hiding out of sight,
Gushes in the breeze, mocking at my plight.

Through the haze, The SUN shimmers in the moon's reflection,
The stars twinkle beneath those hazel ocean.
Serenely she stands, staring, a reality mired in illusion,
Untrammeled, unrivalled, an epitome of perfection.

A thick rich auburn adorns her mane,
Teasing the cloud, flowing insane.
Brighter she shines like the yellow of bloom,
The moon turns pale, wearing a halo of gloom.

Ensnared I stand, feasting on the divine delight,
With enraptured vision, filling in my craving sight.
Her countenance a home to countless expressions,
Some piercing, some probing others unbridled emotions …

For once she turns to find me staring,
Coyly she looks, her smile flickering.
She looks for a while then retreats gently,
Blushing behind the veneers of modesty.

My senses benumbed, my mind conquered,
My heart pounding, my feet foundered.
Rain danced, the wind stood testimony,
Time froze, in the sweetest moment of agony,

In a moment I had lost my life's treasure,
letting in, in turn, the pangs of pleasure,
Dream moments ago, desire a few later,
Destination moments ago, destiny a few later.

Monday, June 9, 2008

Repeated song syndrome....

"Music is zenith", so says the Orkut profile of a dear friend of mine. I could not have agreed more. I would go to the extent of admitting that they are as animate as our own selves. Is it not the shoulders u cry on when u heart is full and absolutely choked??? Is it not the embrace u snuggle up to when ecstasy strikes you big and hard??? From the days of DD and its immensely popular and eagerly awaited bi-weekly Chitrahar and weekly Rangoli, it’s been a long journey to the days of MTV and B4U music. And not to mention the ubiquitous youTube and MetaCafe. It’s been a mushroom growth for music industry. Change is good. But then not all things change.

And one thing that has stood the test of time has been my love-hate relationship with music. Love, I it, with all my heart, but hatred it has always brought for me. I of course love music for all it has to offer, but there is one more strange reason I love it for. I simply never ever could come close to learning any musical instrument, how so ever hard I have tried. And let me shamelessly admit that I m too bad a singer even for bathrooms. There are two types of bad singers. One who think they are the Gulzars and Javed Akhtars in their own right and put all the fanciful words they can think about every time they open their mouth. Thankfully they tend to get the tune right. The second category has those people who render different tunes with the same lyrics everytime they start crooning. Meet Mr Rahman! That is how masterful they are with creating new tunes. There is something worse still, those who are bad at both. And I m the proud member of the last. In a nutshell, I m a hopeless singer. And I genuinely regret that. Next life and I would want to be born as Shreya Ghosal. I simply adore her. I do not know how many times “suna suna lamha lamha” has taken me to endless joyrides in its own magical world.

What might surprise u, it unfailing surprises me every time, is the fact that I tend to develop fancy for those songs all the more which I cannot sing a word of. It is rather common to ask someone their favorite song. When faced with this question, tone-deafs like me tend to mutter some incoherent words in some out of the world tune. Reading a prose would have sounded better. It's a predicament in its own embarrasing way. The audience claps merrrily. Happy at the realisation that there is someon who is worse off than him/her.
On a serious note it is a gift of expression I have been left bereft of. Just imagine the helplessness of a guy who has heard a song tens of thousands of times and not a word of it he can sing. But I have found smarter ways to ward off such predicaments. Make an Adnan or a Reshammiya song your favourite one.

The kind of music I develop taste for is another thing I have always been ridiculed for. I tend to develop particular liking for songs others would just give passing ears and never care to waste energy wanting an encore. Not that I hate this, and still not that I wish to change that, but if only friends could understand that. But I wish things stopped here. I have this habit of listening to any particular song of my choice in an infinite loop. Whether i do it intentionally or it just happens with me is something I have never been able for figure out, but that is incosequential here. But that habit of mine has not gone well some of my friends and has flared many a nerve. At least, definitely, of one colleague of mine. Right from my college days I have been taken to task for this habit of mine. Even by my close friends who had likings pretty similar to mine. But I never seem to be giving up this habit. Nor do I plan to. In fact I believe I have some solid reason not to relinquish this habit of mine.

It is impossible for me to work without songs playing in the background and at the same time songs can be a huge distraction when you need to concentrate hard. So that is when the tried and test repeated song syndrome lends a helping hand. No grey cells get exercised in teasing out the meaning of a song heard a thousand times. Its meaning and lyrics are clearly registered in your heart and mind. No extra grey cells get exercised to interpret its meaning. At the same time it, by virtue of being your favourite song, soothes your disturbed psyche. My college friends hardly found any substance in my arguments, just because they were my college friends.And why would they let go of a chance to push me against the wall. Not that they had no other issues to pull my leg, but then an extra one was always welcome. But I believe the highly erudite bloggers would find some salt in my arguments.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

The New Princess of Roland Garros...

Many a fairy-tales have been staged on the Phillipe Chatrier court. Some relegated to a corner of history books, others imprinted indelibly on innumerable hearts. History was once again waiting to be re-written, one way or the other, for at its door steps stood two immensely talented tennis-pros, both in their early twenties, competing for their first Grand Slam title. A befitting finale it may not have been. Nevertheless, it was definitely one for the heart.

What would you say about a girl who looks stunningly beautiful in her bright pink outfit?

That she is exceptional in her shot making with that near perfect forehand cross court. That she plays that impeccable double handed backhand down the line, leaving her opponent breathless. That, she at 6’1”, stands taller with her sheer grit and attitude. That she goes for her winners whether it is a break point she is facing or a match point she is going for. That she has that child-like innocence that belies her temperament beyond her age. That she has that impish tint about her grey eyes that keeps you glued to the screen for hours. That she has this compelling simplicity to write home about. That she is the new queen of Roland Garros. That she’s been the princess of many a hearts before Roland Garros crowned her the QUEEN.

That, she wins you over with that cute, heart rendering smile which brightens up her face every time she comes up with winners. That she amazes you with the sameness of expression that remains constant on her visage, be she in whatever stage of the game. That she genuinely feels sorry for her opponent if a shot of hers grazes the net-chord and spills right over, when many others prefer pumping their chest on similar occasions. That she neither throws starry tantrums on unforced errors nor does she speak a mouthful at incredible winners. That she has her own graceful way of egging herself on and pumping her fist. That she leaves u gaping with the sheer femininity of the manner in which she goes about doing her job. That, she is honest to the extent that she ruled a ball in favor of her opponent when the chair umpire had ruled against the ball landing in service court. And that too in a grand slam final. She lost that final but won my unconditional and unflinching support, for ever. That I have remained loyal in my support for her is a mere testimony to her abilities rather than of my standing on my words.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

The morning rain, the evening rain....!!!

Temperamental, they are, aren't they, the Rains; wet they would someone deep down while leave others high and dry. When millions go cloth-less with frenzied excitement seeing the first cloud hover, from million others it(rain) mericilessly takes away the only piece of clothing they have had for ages.When the firmament opens up in all its splendour to wet down the essence of earth, it is blissfully unaware of what would come back. Brickbats and boquets bundled together is what they get back. That's how it's been for them, almost always. Fate, all one can say!!! It would be too gory a tale to delve deeper...let it be a story untold.

The recent spurt of non-seasonal rains in Delhi have hit me hard, though with a stupid question. Is there a difference between an "evening" shower and a "morning" drizzle. A year back, and I would have said rains are always fun, what morning, what evening. I do want to say that now as well, but can I, with the same conviction. Perhaps not. Actually not.

The rain is beating down hard and strong in the late evening and there I stand in my balcony with my colleague, sipping some hot coffee. Leaning against the wall, we talk of all the good times, remembering all the beautiful seasons we spent together in our college days. Hours later we retreat back to our bed, to be up in time for office next morning and with child like innocence he says, "Alok, let's keep all the windows and the door open, it is such a beautiful weather." I am only too willing to accept. An "aah" erupts and rainy dreams take us over.

Mornings never came before 9 and 9 was never too early on office days. And it is raining still. "Hey, Bhagwan, even the raincoats haven't dried up" I scream and the rains, it is raining as if it were never to stop. The is perhaps the agony of being rain. No natural phenomenon ever elicited such juxtaposed emotions and such widely varied one at that. If in the evening those tiny inncouous droplets of water falling off the leaves took us on a ride to the sylvan greens of our college campus, they grow monsterous by the morning clogging roads and overflowing the sewage. Negotiating a heavly clogged stretch with a wide frown on my face, I asked, "How would Delhi ever become a world class city?" Not at least with rains playing havoc in the "morning".

The evening air seems all pleasant and soothing. Intoxicated by the presence of water droplets in their fold, it blows ubridled, caressing the trees and temple-tops on its way to its unison with the clouds. Swing it plays to the tightly held hands of two lovers in tow enjoying their first rain of togetherness. Come morning and the breeze has all gone heavy and dustful hitting hard against your raincoats and still searching for something more non-plastic to wet. These morning rains, they never did anyone any good, did they?

There can hardly be few things more fulfilling than savouring the enchating aroma emanting from the soil in the evening. It fills up ur senses with contenment, leaving an indelible mark on your heart. The morning rain leaves a mark too, of a different kind though, on ur shoes, ur clothers as u make ur way through the dirty, stinking rivulents left as a testimony; A testimony to the wonderful time the "evening" rain had brought about; A testimony to the ill-designs of the morning rain; A testimony to my ever so increasing hatred for the morning rain..............!!!!