July

The line of tall gulmohurs leaning against the second floor window, coming alive in an almost Gothic manner. Brooding giants, whirling in the frenzy of the unleashed wind, sucking in the steel darkness brought down by the squatting clouds. Dominating the view, demanding to be viewed, luring us into watching as they shamelessly revelled in the shower, scrubbing off the heat and grime of the whole year.

And we watched too, at first in slack-jawed shock, marvelling at how they remained standing under that torrent, and later, squirming in simple delight at their unrestrained joy. And then squealing as they tried to rope us into playing too, drenching us through the window slits through which we stared, wishing we could escape from the suddenly too-bright class into the wild gloom outside.

Some dreaming of running barefeet, squelching through a ground turned wet brown from a dry red. Some mournfully contemplating the soon-to-be-sullied white, white clothes. Others cleverly secreting away bits of chalk, for later scrubbing across tired, muddy trainers. Boys marking which girls were weather-unproofed, or carried only umbrellas, in order to later furtively detail the aftermath of their inevitable drenching. Girls making quick pacts with those more well-prepared, or lucky, determined not to be quite as entertaining as male fantasies were sure to hope they would be. Some unconsciously drooling in anticipation of the deliciousness of hot things to bite into, noticing how the ripples in the frying oil mimic those of the puddles beneath, and then barely waiting for the booty to be removed before stuffing it all down, scalded tongues be damned.

And through it all, everyone ignoring the hapless teacher, trying unsuccessfully to maintain some semblance of dignity and duty, trying to ignore a rhythm seductively suggesting a return to simpler days, when small pleasures still had the power to make the misery of life bearable.