I was walking the Brooklyn Bridge from the DUMBO side on Wednesday evening when the sky cracked open, and instead of running, I just stopped.
The thunderstorm came the way August thunderstorms come in New York — no warning, no mercy, all at once. One minute the sky was that heavy grey-gold, the next it was a wall of water and everyone on the Brooklyn Bridge was screaming and running toward the Manhattan side.
My sandals were dead in about eight seconds. Little strappy things, not built for weather, entirely my fault.
And I don't know what came over me but I did not run. I stood there in the middle of the bridge, soaked to the bone, watching the city blur through the rain, and I laughed like an idiot.
It reminded me of the monsoon back home. The way the first rain in Ahmedabad turns everyone into children, the smell of wet earth, the pakoras my mother would fry the second the sky darkened. I could almost taste them on the Brooklyn Bridge, absurdly, at soaking-wet me.
There is a scene in every Bollywood film where it rains and everything becomes meaningful. I always thought it was silly. Standing on that bridge, mascara probably somewhere near my chin, I understood it completely.
A man next to me, equally drenched, just looked over and said, "Some evening, huh?" And I said yeah. Some evening.
The thunderstorm passed as fast as it came. By the time I got to City Hall the sun was out and the pavement was steaming and I was the only wet person left, squelching toward the 6 train.
I ruined my sandals. I did not care. I had not felt that alive all summer, and it cost me nothing except one pair of shoes I bought thrifted anyway.
Let the storm catch you sometimes. It's cheaper than therapy.
Love,