It’s a good day for the little teashop owners, who provide the only shelter from the downpour. Impassable puddles, filled directly from a low grey sky, can only be crossed by the green carriages pulled by the old tired horses. Teenage motorcyclists, who dare each other to cross the deep dark puddles, yield angry incomprehensible words and fist waving from the occasional passerby splashed with the brown murky mud.
It’s a bad day for those whose livelihood depends on visitors: the snake charmers with their black cobras and vipers, crawled back to their baskets; the acrobats performing aerial somersaults in waitress-like white uniforms; the story tellers, teeth pullers and fortune tellers. None of them will make ends meet today. Yet, the air is filled with smiles, drumming music and excited chats.
When did they last see rain?
It’s only the visitors, many of whom came to escape from the grayness of their own places, who complain to each other while sipping slowly their mint tea served in minute glasses. Occasionally they would stand up and move to the next teashop to have a new view of the rain, hoping for something to happen; anything at all that will break the routine of the day, and give them the touch of excitement they crave so much.