That’s one thing about the poor. They’ll share whatever they have, even their space. The reason why India is a spiritual being is that you get taught a life lesson every minute.

St-Merde! (That’s like ‘Jesus Christ!’ in Quebecois French spoken here).

The way Irene (the hurricane) was made to look in the news, it really seemed like the next thing the US government would do was round up two of every living being and shove them into the USS Gerald R. Ford for 40 days and 40 nights.

Irene was bearing down on the US eastern seaboard but we had been told she had her sights on us poor Quebecois too. For weeks prior, we began stocking up on everything imaginable. I made sure I had enough of my medikayshun, La Crema Pinot Noir, in 750ml bottles.

We boarded up windows and doors. Flashlights, batteries, candles, bottled water, beer, jigsaw puzzles, plywood and duct tape flew off the shelves at stores. 

Oh, and condoms too. Just in case Irene wouldn’t leave. The sound of the lashing winds has a Wagneresque effect on the libido.

See what I did there? I turned a fucking hurricane into something sexually arousing. That is sheer genius, I tell you. Those Booker idiots should look at indie writers like me. 

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In the country of my birth, India, I doubt if Irene would even be considered newsworthy. Torrential rain, gale winds, waterlogged streets, power outages and collapsing roofs are frequent in summer.

You wouldn’t find a storm like Irene even in a tea cup in Kolkata. 

Summer rain, a.k.a the monsoons. If you haven’t experienced that in coastal India, you really have no idea. Big droplets, the size of marbles, coming down in blinding sheets. You could be soaking wet in a matter of seconds. Don’t bother to protect yourself.

An umbrella is a joke here. One of those ‘duckback’ brand raincoats maybe? Forget it, it’ so hot and humid, you could steam and sweat to death inside one of those.  

Over here in Canada, the rain comes in a light, intermittent drizzle. It moves leisurely down the road, wetting things only slightly. If you are bopping along, you can make out the border of the advancing rain easily and stay out of it.

What? You don’t know what bopping is? It’s a 1970s thing, a springy, prancy, dancing gait of a carefree guy who has just inhaled a toke of weed.

The Canadian rain is calm and gentlemanly. If you listen to it carefully, you might hear it murmur to you, “Excuse me, sir, may I cross your front lawn? I’ll only sprinkle a wee little bit, I promise. I’m headed to Oka Lake. They’re passing rain checks there”.

And the weatherman on CTV will label that a ‘thunderstorm’!

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My last visit to India, the monsoons were in full swing. I was on foot, in the Gariahat area in Kolkata, when the rain started in earnest……..

Looking around, I saw this tea stall on the sidewalk, sheltered under a six by eight corrugated iron sheet that was held up by four wooden sticks, slightly slanted so the rain water would drip off. Besides the stall owner, his kerosene stove and utensils, crammed under it were at least ten guys, pushing and shoving to stay out of the downpour.

I scooted there and jammed myself in with the crowd. I didn’t notice any irritation or rancour among those who were already there. They just moved over silently, making space for me to join in.

That’s one thing about the poor. They’ll share whatever they have, even their space. The reason why India is a spiritual being is that you get taught a life lesson every minute.

The air inside that corrugated shelter was heavy and fetid with stale beedi smoke and sweat and the drumming of the rain on the tin roof was deafening.

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Oh yeah, I’ve smoked just about every brand of beedi there is. The ‘Raj Kamal’ brand used to be the priciest, but by the end of the month until my pappy sent my monthly allowance, it had to be ‘Basanti’ beedis. Coarse, raw and harsh, my recurring coughs must be a direct effect. Shame there is no effective tort law over there in India.

Getting back to the rain, it could go on for hours and I still had some shopping to do. Kurta-pyjamas, hojmi goolis – those yummy spicy, salty, sweet and sour digestive tablets. Cinnamon, turmeric, clove and cardamom, all the stuff that is very expensive and not at all fresh over here in Canada.

And ‘ghuris & lattai’ (Kites and reel). Why would I want to get something here in Canada for $50 when it costs just a few cents there?

I was enjoying every minute of my few days left on this amazing land of my birth. 

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A couple of yards away, a sidewalk vendor – a chain smoking guy in his 40s, thin as a rail, had had his DVDs spread over wooden planks, balanced over a crate. As the rain came down in earnest, he began scrambling to cover them with a dirty blue plastic sheet. Just a minute prior, as I was walking by, curiosity had slowed my pace and I had stooped to take a look at his DVDs.

“Here, dada, Anondo Shibajinogor’s new phlim, Raambo. Six phlims on one DVD. Just Rs50.” (Rs50 would have worked out to 60¢ Canadian). He held up a DVD that would feel completely at home in Mogadishu, it was so pirated.

As I started to pass him by, the man said, “OK, OK for you Rs40. Hey, where are you going? Listen, you can have it for 35, OK? Come back here before I change my mind”.

Now, as the rain came down heavily, Mr No-clue-about-intellectual-property-rights sat back on his haunches, on the sidewalk, huddled under another plastic sheet, looking morose. He took out a round packet of Basanti beedis, lit one and inhaled.

As he pulled on the harsh untreated tobacco, he convulsed in a series of hoarse coughs. The beedi still stuck to the corner of his lips and eyes puckering from the smoke, he picked up the tiny framed picture of Ma Laxmi (the Goddess Laxmi) which had been standing next to the DVDs. He brought the picture up to his eyes and I noticed a smaller, faded passport-sized photo of a little girl stuck to the bottom between the glass and the frame.

Mr DVD touched his forehead against the glass and then lay the picture flat on the planks after carefully wiping it clean with his kurta sleeve. He remained on his haunches, his butt clearing the sidewalk by two inches, just enough clearance above the river of rain water that was flowing down to the nearby gutter.

Don’t know why but Mr DVD suddenly swivelled and caught me watching him intently. He stuck out the packet,”Nin, beedi khan. Na? Keno khaben. Apnara shaibra amader beedi keno khete jaben.”

Rough translation… “Here, have a beedi. No? Oh, I know. Why would you rich folk want to smoke a beedi, eh?” He turned back, with a gesture of disgust.

I stepped forward, feeling like committing some hara kiri, “Din to, kheye dekhi.”

Translation….. “Okay, I’d like to try one please”.

His face lit up in glee, like it was he who should be thankful. His hand was a blur as he whipped out the crushed packet and offered me one, deftly lighting it at the same time. As the acrid smoke bit into my throat, I nodded appreciatively, trying not to splutter. Thankfully, beedis don’t last long. 

Here’s another thing about the poor – they are eager to give what they own. The poor are thrilled to be seen as givers. Astonishing, isn’t it?

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After a while, as the skies began to clear and the drumming on the tin roof turned to a mild pitter patter, I gave Bablu (the stall owner, everyone was calling him that) a tenner and stepped out. I went over to Mr DVD who was busy taking off the plastic cover, rearranging his DVDs and standing his Ma Laxmi picture frame up once again.

I bought the Arnold Schwarzenegger six-in-one and handed him two hundred rupee notes. He was beside himself, speechless, his face crumpling into tears. He would never know it was just a little over $3.00 to me.

The hell with intellectual property rights. I know a place they can stick them.

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