So the rain continues, the wind howls at my window, I've been out a couple more times, and we have, inadvertently, three guests for the night.
One, the young man from the flat below us. He stepped out to clean something, and the door banged shut behind him. He doesn't have the key. One of the other two people in the flat is in Goa. The other is stuck in the rain somewhere in south Bombay.
Two, the old woman who lives in the nearby flowerbed. My wife went out for her own jaunt in the rain, found the woman bailing out water -- mud, really -- from the flowerbed. Utterly futile. Wife asked her to come up for the night. She has had some food, wanted something sweet at the end (sugar, she finally decided) and has gone to sleep.
Three, a friend of the folks in the flat below who works behind the counter at a clothing store. No way she can make it back to her farflung suburb in this flood from the sky, so she came to our building. Found nobody home, so sat on the stairs trying to call them on her phone. She's up here too.
Strange evening, but then it's pretty strange out there. Wild and exhilarating, but strange too. And it brings back, over and over, a memory that upsets me still, of another soaking night.