And They Lived Happily Ever After... Not!

I have long nursed a grudge against people who, for reasons I can not even begin to comprehend, seek to believe that they are in complete control of their lives. For as long as I can recall, I have been confused and perplexed by the fact that people, or at least the vast majority of them, in their infinite idiocy, completely and absolutely refuse to acknowledge the forces at work in this world.
Before I begin being misunderstood, which I more often than not am, allow me to hastily clarify what I mean. It must be pointed out that I am, in now way, a subscriber to the fatalist way of life. I do not believe that man is subordinate to inevitable occurrences and experiences, or that he can not mould his own future. And I would be the first to concede that a world-view which encourages action based on the fundamental notion of all-pervasive control is, very probably, the most proactive way of looking at this less than perfect universe. Even I must, myself, plead guilty on the count of occasionally looking at the world as centered around what I do and think, as anyone who has been fortunate enough to know and interact with me on a sustained basis would know.

I do, however, in moments of somewhat muted egotism (which I admit are few and fairly infrequent), realise that while the surmise that one is wholly in control of one's life and destiny may be the most convenient way of looking at the world, it is far from being the most accurate. Man, in spite of his multiple advances, or maybe because of them, has not yet come to terms with the fact that there remain, and always will remain, forces beyond his control.
Allow me to illustrate using a completely arbitrary example. Most people seem to be, or pretend to be, I know not which one, completely oblivious to the fact that meteorological phenomenon play such an important part in our lives. To borrow from Messrs Gallagher, who, before anyone else I knew or came in contact with, made the revolutionary claim that nobody ever seems to remember that life is a game we play; Nobody ever mentions the weather can make or break your day.

It can.
And if you don't believe me, well, gather around, and I shall tell you a story.

I remember it was raining that day. If you are of an inquisitive bent of mind, as I daresay I would've been, had I been the one listening to this story, you may ask me how I remember it was raining, for it was a couple of weeks back that this (wholly fictitious) incident occurred, and rain isn't so much an event as it is the routine, in this city. My memory, like everyone else's, is far from infallible. However, I do know the answer to the question now asked. In fact, it is one of the few questions regarding this story that I have a definite answer to, and which I shall therefore entertain.
I remember it was raining that day, for it all began when she offered him her umbrella.

No, wait a minute. I must pause here, for I have a strong suspicion I am slightly wrong. It definitely did not start there. The moment which involved the umbrella in question being offered was not the moment when the story I now recount started. Quite probably, it was merely the point in time in the story, much like there is a point in time in every story, when the people involved first realised, quite suddenly and irrevocably, that there was, indeed, a story in the offing.

But I shouldn't start a story from where the people involved first knew they were in the middle of one, should I? I should start at the beginning, for otherwise I am sure to confound and bewilder.

It all started innocently enough.
It was raining, and he knew he was in a hurry. The rain was, still, far from severe, and he, a veteran of many monsoons (but not too many; about twenty or so ought to do, I think), wasn't unduly worried. He knew he was in a hurry, but if you would've accosted him then and there, and asked him why, he would have been, quite uncharacteristically, lost for words. Maybe it was because he was getting late, and he knew he had to be where he was trying to get to pretty soon, for he had traveled a while to get this far, and he didn't want to miss a thing. Or maybe it was simply because he was, even then, strangely pulled to her, attracted without knowing why he was attracted, or even that he was, in fact, attracted. He hardly knew her; she was, till then, a mere acquaintance he'd run into a couple of times. But the last three quarters of an hour had been absolutely magical, starting from the instant his eyes had met hers across the length of the crowded platform, right up to the point when they had exited the train, and started walking to wherever it was that they were going.
He was desperate not to lose sight of her dark coat as she wove her way through the crowd. She was but a few steps ahead, and he knew he could cover the distance between them whenever he chose to, if he chose to, but he was afraid of slowing down, for although it was just a little over half past five, darkness had fallen, as it is wont to at higher latitudes, and the last thing he wanted to do was to lose her in the crowd.

It was still raining. The funny thing was, and I'm sure he thought to himself the very same thing at the time, it was no longer the mild rain that he'd been subject to over the past few minutes. Almost imperceptibly until now, without him having noticed or acknowledged it, the rain had grown worse. It was no longer the ordinary, routine rain that is so common here people almost completely disregard it; not the gloomy, irritating, damp but not quite wet, particulate horizontal rain that sticks to your face and merges with the air that you inhale. What he was experiencing now was more the heavy, gushing, the Gods being upset and letting their anger be known kind of rain, tinged with a hint of sleet, and touched by a mild sense of ill tidings for the couple of hours that were to follow. I know now, with the privilege of hindsight, that the rain, which at the time seemed quite fierce, was merely a precursor to the fiercer snow storm that was to follow, but he didn't know that at the time, and I am fairly confident that she didn't either.

The rain intensified, and he buttoned his coat and turned his collar to keep out the cold. About him, people, most of whom were just as ill prepared for the rain as he was, started stopping under awnings and trees. But he merely breathed in the icy air, tried valiantly but failed to control the slight shiver that escaped him, and continued walking. Maybe because he was in a hurry. Or maybe because she continued walking.

For the next couple of minutes, as they kept walking, the crowd around them, which was quite surely headed in the same direction as they were, and therefore was just as late as them, thinned as groups of people gave up walking in the rain for the altogether more pleasant occupation of standing in the shade.
They weren't too far now, for they could hear the mass of people in the distance, the people who had already made it, and it would all start any minute now.
It was, still, raining.

She glanced heavenwards, maybe intending to make a fresh evaluation of the now substantial rain, giving her head a casual and nonchalant turn that threw back the hair that had been covering her face. It was an effortless flick, yet it served its purpose beautifully, and the elegance with which her slightly damp hair acquiesced knocked the wind out of him, and made him shiver slightly; the second time that evening.
Her inspection of the skies complete, she deemed it appropriate to take action (a tad late, some would probably argue, but that was the last thing that flitted through his thoughts at the time, being as we was, still, and would continue to be for the next few minutes, rather enamored of the way her hair had conducted itself), and thus fished into her handbag, to emerge a few long seconds later with an umbrella which, even on its good day, would have struggled to completely protect a full-grown adult from the rain. It would have probably, with a huge amount of effort, and very strategic placing, just about shielded her from the downpour, but it was most definitely not, I must stress, an umbrella that could accommodate two.

Then she looked at him, smiled, and she offered to share her umbrella, just as the first few fireworks lit up the sky.
And he knew, as you and I have for a while now, that there was a story in the offing.

He fell into step with her, and they moved ahead together, their brisk pace even more pronounced now, for maybe it seemed to them that some of the promise that the evening had held had already materialised, and they were both now eager to explore and take part in the developments that were to follow. They walked on together, as she tried to keep up with his stride, and he tried to manipulate the rather limited umbrella to maximize its effect. The fireworks rang out clearer now, and each time they did, they were closer, and the sky was brighter.

They reached the clearing just as the fireworks display reached its peak; the light and sound which for so long had been ahead of them, now directly overhead. They stopped, for the first time since they'd started walking.
And then, also for the first time since they'd started walking (and indeed, for the first time altogether) they looked at each other. His hair was wet, and her feet were cold, but for a few brief moments, those things ceased to matter. As did everything else.
They stood there, in the cold and damp, looking at each other, silhouetted against the fire in the sky, oblivious to the sound, the light, the gathering storm and the crowd around them.

They looked at each other, and he could see the fireworks reflected in her eyes. They looked at each other, and they knew they didn't want to look away.
But their eyes soon began to water, and he started to suspect that the fireworks may well be, if viewed directly, much grander compared to their rather limited representation in her eyes.

Which is when they looked up, just as it began to snow.