Murali enjoys being drenched in the spray splashed by the row of vehicles driving by. Not in the morning; he definitely prefers being clean and dry in school. Canteen meals taste much worse when a boy is dank.
Food in the institution, served free, was the reason his mother started sending him to a center of learning in the first place, even if it meant living without the precious few rupees he used to earn as a vendor of peanuts at the nearest traffic-signal. "Finally! Food for someone who sells something to eat, waaah!" he had joked. Maa had simply scolded him for trying to be smart.
Cars stop, one by one, in front of the "better" school gate. Only for as long as it takes the tilting chauffeur, holding an umbrella over the student's head, to rush Bhaiya from his car to the school portico. Standing outside the school for ordinary folk, Murali watches from the other side of the road. He wonders how bad it could be if Bhaiya actually got wet. So much fuss!
When it rains, it pours, and the byroad is flooded by the afternoon. Not just with water, but with lads from the common school. They run around, get wet, and wade in muddy water. Groups of them hang around to enjoy the shower. Rain dances get created-the weirder the better-and games. One of the most popular is when they roll a big pebble into a deep puddle. At the count of three, everyone dives to pick it up. The finder is the winner. Murali is the proud creator of the Pebble-in-the-Puddle game.
But the season of showers lasts quite a while. Even fun and frolic turn dull and come to lack color.
One Friday, Murali saw a Bhaiya riding a bike to school; the rider's eyes were sparkling at the sheer novelty and adventure of it all. His driver had been given instructions to be a part of the "safety" convoy. In his joy, the boy seemed to have forgotten about the car trailing him. His rainwear had "Rains are fun!" written in bright hues over its transparent plastic base. Surprised at himself, Murali felt attracted by its colors. He had never owned a waterproof. Not even the plainest of raincoats. He caught himself thinking how cheerful and carefree a boy would feel walking around in happy rain gear like that in the morning on the way to school.
Murali's mother works in a garment factory. She leaves early in the morning, but is always back in time to give Murali his evening tea. She hurries back with a bundle of cloth under one armpit and a sealed plastic bag of milk in her hand. Maa always makes it a point to boil the milk first. She takes extra care to squeeze out every drop from the small hole she cuts in one corner of the pouch. "If it curdles, what would we use for chai?" she mutters. Together, they sit holding warm glasses of the drink in their hands. Murali keeps chatting to make his glass of tea last longer. Maa finishes quickly, then immediately shuffles off to her factory-owned sewing machine for the night shift at home.
The only protection against waters from the sky in Murali's house is a dull patched-up umbrella, which Maa carries to the factory. Murali is too sensible to ask his mother to spend money on a thing like a raincoat. We all live with and love water that the skies pour on us. Why should we waste money just to stay dry? Yet he shyly tells Maa about what he saw the Bhaiya wearing. Maa listens quietly. She feels proud that Murali could read the words written in English and understand what they meant. She asks him once again, "Mazedaar baarish, na?"
The next week, there is a crowd around Murali. Boys fight their way through to take a good look. Most can't relate to Murali standing there in that thing; he seems like someone else and not their Mur at all. Half an hour in it and even the star of the moment seems to realize that it is uncomfortable, sticky, and itchy inside the rainwear. All that crowding around him makes it even more so.
Murali's rain gear is quite like his dream poncho. It also has something written on it in two colors over the white plastic sheet. If you look closely, this something turns out to be "Pasteurised Milk"…
Courtesy: Flash Fiction Magazine 
