Raindrops Keep Falling On My Bloody Head

Humour

Raindrops Keep Falling On My Bloody Head

Illustration: Saachi Mehta/ Arré

W

hen the rain begins to smack against the ground, you will invariably have that one person around, wholly incapable of original thought, who will jabber on (with a nauseating sense of accomplishment) about the “smell of fresh rain on soil”. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve achieved in life – this will happen. (And with it, a famous writer somewhere in the world will kill herself.) It’s just how the world works. And then, as the rain transforms into a ceaseless downpour that makes everything, including you, smell wholly fetid and vaguely fungal, the Lit101 blather stops.

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