"Rain"

I've always loved anything to do with water. Swimming, kayaking, water skiing, splashing in puddles, and playing in the rain, I had done it all. That was ,of course, before we moved back to Mawsynram, India to meet up with family and old, old friends. The kind of friends you forgot about after a while and didn't care about seeing. Though what my parents wanted they got. My opinion didn't mater. I was only eleven.

Mawsynram was beautiful. That was when it wasn't raining of course, and it was always raining. There was just too much water for me.

"I thought you loved the rain," my parents would say.

"That was before I lived through three floods in the same summer!" I would exclaim.

I didn't spend much time with my parents any more. I didn't spend much time with anyone anymore. Though, I did have my books. The books I read over and over again when I was bored. The books that became my friends when I couldn't find any on my own. These were the books that kept me going through rain, sleet, or the extremely rare shine.

It was nice to hike in Mawsynram. The nature was beautiful. The diversity in animals was amazing. Although, once again this is only when it isn't raining.

Like most of India Mawsynram is poor. small houses that more closely resembled shacks than houses littered the poorly paved streets. Men with thick, unruly beards and dirty close begged on the streets trying to sell the scraps they picked from the garbage. There was no such thing as clean clothes in Mawsynram. All was dirty because of the rain and the quicksand mud.

Despite the rain, Mawsynram never smelled nice. To put it simply Mawsynram smelled poor. Though describing what poor smells like is more that difficult. It smelled like the subway back in New York if everything was rusted and people didn't wear deodorant and shower. It smelled like the ocean if it was more mud than salt. It smelled like flour if it clogged your nose like coal from a smoke stack. Mawsynram was full of poor and rain.

Although Mawsynram was not bustling with sound like other places in India often were. There were few cars and mopeds and few shops and markets. The clamor came from the rain. The wind shook the rusted, metal shacks. The rain slammed every house and wooden umbrella. There would occasionally be a flash of lightning and the sub sequential boom of thunder but they were rarely heard over the flooding streets of Mawsynram.

So back to my books I went. At thirteen now I am able to ignore the stench or rust and mud and have all but come to block out the sound of rain, but I have yet to make any friends. In Mawsynram we don't go to school. We just farm. Farm like slaves. Though, we don't sing songs of sadness and of wishes of freedom like slaves in 19th century America. We stay quiet, because our voices are rarely heard over the thud of rainfall on our upturned wooden baskets we use like umbrellas.

Though our family is wealthy for Mawsynram standards, we do not live in luxury as we did in New York. We have running water though. I doubt we will ever return to America again, but I hope, I pray to which ever god I see fit. Sometimes its Buddha sometimes its just god, other times on days I feel angry I pray to the devil Mara. I never get a response.

I have memorized most of the lines in the six books I brought with me to Mawsynram. So I write. Sometimes if there is no paper or pencils I just think. Think of what I would write if I could, but I can't. Some days I make up my own religion or my own language other days I talk to a friend I made up in a dream. Her name is Mary. Mary is nice to me, she listens to me when I feel down and compliments the stories I write. I wish she wasn't just a voice in my head.

I should be happy. Happy that I am not a real slave. Happy that I am not a part of a predetermined marriage. I should be happy I am healthy and strong, but I am not. I am sad and lonely. The rain has become my only friend it soothes my nerves. it rocks me to sleep, and its never mean. I've come to enjoy the floods. The floods mean not farming and more writing. We've found a place to swim not far from our stub grey house. I like the rain.

We will be going back to America, but I don't think I want to leave. It doesn't rain enough in New York. In New York the air smells like exhaust and pollution, but I want it to smell like rust and mud. In New York the air is loud with car honks and yelling but I want the sound of rain to sooth me. I don't want to leave. At least I'll still have Mary, but I don't want Mary I want real friends. Well in America I will get more books and paper and pencils. I might even be able to write on a computer, but It wont be the same without the rain. I can't write without the rain. It gives me ideas. It comforts me. I will miss the rain. I just hope ill make some friends. Good friends that will keep me company like the rain in Mawsynram. Friends that I can talk to and understand like books. Friends with voices as soothing as rain on metal shacks. Well good luck to me. I'm not sure what will happen, but I hope my life turns out less lonely and more eventful. I'm tired of the rain I want to be a writer. Im so bad at writing im so bad at writing Im so bad at writin.

Hi this is Nathan Dean the author of this short story. I'm sorry it was so bad. I wrote this in an hour and im a terrible writer. Please give me $50.