The Message In The Rain

By Ramnath Subramanian

A bereaved husband chases after the memories of his wife in a war-torn country, and receives signs and messages that point to a reunion on the ‘other side.’ Ian’s path intersects with those of a few people — enigmas themselves — who help to shed light on the mysteries embedded in the messages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781008953895

Book preview

For my wife, Maria Subramanian,

who is the love of my life,

and the source of my daily inspiration

Copyright © Ramnath Subramanian, 2021

ISBN: 9781008953895

The only reality I care for, Ian thought, is for Amira’s words to come true, where she walks into the room once more, dressed like the rain.

Ian’s wife died a week ago.

He lived in a hotel for a week, because he couldn’t go back to his home. He couldn’t go back to bed in a familiar and yet strange room that suddenly had become voiceless.

And now that she was buried, he needed to get away from the city itself.

He had told Amira that he might go to Las Vegas, and she sang Petula Clark’s Downtown for him in a feeble voice, and said, If you're thinking of running away to Las Vegas, don’t go losing this home and all your money at the craps table. She said that half-jokingly, half-seriously.

She knew he wouldn’t be proof against all indiscretions, but she also knew he wouldn’t do anything extravagantly foolish. There was nothing wrong with voicing a little concern, a word of caution.

It won’t be the same without you there, Ian said. I doubt that I will be able to go to the craps table at all. All the noise — I don’t think I could handle it. I may just wander around the city until my legs give out.

That is precisely what he did. Strangely, he felt dead himself, except that he was still walking.

The people in the streets were all alive, but Amira was dead. He thought he had prepared himself for the finality of her death, but he realized now that no such preparation was ever possible.

I should have kissed her face many more times, he said to himself. He felt an urge to go back to the cemetery, dig up the earth, open the casket, and kiss her face once more.

What then? How could he hold the earth in his hand forever?

No, he couldn’t go back. He couldn't go back to anything.

Just walk. Keep on walking, Ian told himself. Maybe you will drop dead from exhaustion, and all your troubles will be over.

ii

Outside The Rialto, a middle-aged lady bumped into Ian and spilled some beer on his shirt. She was profusely apologetic.

I’m so, so sorry, she said. She took some paper napkins out of her purse and started dabbing the front of his shirt.

I’m so, so sorry, she repeated.

It’s all right, Ian said. It’ll dry soon enough. No great harm done.

Ian looked at her face briefly, and saw in it a touch of sympathy, or commiseration, perhaps, and blurted out, Listen, could we sit down somewhere and have a little chat? I really need to talk to someone, really badly.

Ian expected to be rejected outright, or else to be gently pushed aside. Instead, she said, Well, I am going to The Rialto to play blackjack. Perhaps you will join me at the table for a few hands. And we can talk some, if you like.

Ian nodded his assent.

As he walked towards the casino, Ian’s mind raced back to Venice. He and Amira had made three trips there, the last one just eight months ago.

I don’t want to think about Venice. I don’t want to think about any of our trips to Europe or anywhere else, Ian chided himself. He wished he could be like the sadhus who live in the foothills of the Himalayas, who sit cross-legged, close their eyes, and clear their minds of all thoughts.

They were heading towards the section of the casino where all the blackjack tables were located, next to the cashier’s cage.

We haven’t introduced ourselves, his companion said. I am Jill.

I am Ian. That’s not quite my name, but all my friends call me Ian.

Nice to meet you, said Jill, matter-of-factly. Is it OK if we play at a $10 table. That’s all they seem to have. I prefer a $5 table, myself.

Me, too, said Ian.

They sat down at a table with two other players who occupied the end chairs. The dealer liked to make small talk, and Ian found his garrulity most irritating. He looked at his cards and played mechanically.

I like playing here the best, Jill said. Away from The Strip. What I like is that parking here is so much easier.

Ian was listening, but also not listening. Against his wishes, his mind went back to Venice.

Amira had picked up a peculiar habit in Italy. She liked to visit the settings of her favorite movies and reenact some of the scenes.

What scenes are you going to play out now that we are in Venice? Ian