Rain Machine

It is unusual to have this kind of heat this early. Dateline is spring, 2010. Kolkata. India.

We need a rain machine. My nephew, Arka, remarks.

I can at least cool your palette, your larynx and your heart. I retrieve a bottle of Smirnoff, I have spiced with black peppers, cloves, aniseeds two weeks ago. The color of the liquid is now of a blended scotch or a sunset we have seen while traveling on the river of Ganges and the flavor is of the Silk route, of the ancient orient and of a lonely adventurer traveling with a talkative mule.

I pour a nip of that liquid into a shaker; mint leaves are added with pulpy apple juice. After blending the concoction with crushed ice and pouring into our Collins glasses, after taking a sip while listening to an ABBA “Love machine” we agree over the name for this cocktail:

RAIN MACHINE.

Just then my friend Partha calls.

He is getting married!

Raindance

In another million years

my tongue will grow like a reptile searching

for a drop of water.

You are then performing

a pagan dance, shaking two rattles, and

your song is a sad yet neutral yearning.

In another million years

dancing for rain can be the reason for

us to fall in love. Together our songs

will grow branches like a tree

sad in a desert world.

In another million years….

Now we drink an apple cocktail, pulpy,

vodka infused, mint smelling and spiced.

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Rain Machine