My baby brother is crying. Mosquitoes are crowding above his head like a black halo. They are sitting on his pink skin filling their tummies with sweet smelling blood. I can’t kill them all, so I pick up a vacuum cleaner and suck them all in with one silent swoop. I wake up from the dream feeling good about myself for being so smart. 

I make a mental note of things to do. Finish the P.B. Shelley essay, do grocery, finish the book by Rohinton Mistry, do the exercises from Pullman’s ‘Write Fiction’, and go for a walk.

I come out of my room. The common kitchen is silent. My other housemates are either not up or are out already. I pour milk in a cup and heat it in the microwave. It beeps like it is about to die. Where the heck does the microwave have to go? Why does it beep like machines in hospitals that warn the doctor if a patient’s pulse is dropping? As if it has better things to heat than my milk. I take the cup out and add a spoon of instant coffee powder and sugar. The first and the last sip of coffee are so much better. I watch out of my window, it is raining. It’s been raining for a week now. My essentials lie on the string as wet when I took them out of my washing machine a week back. Like a sneaky shop lifter, the mild sun, tempered down by arrogant black clouds smiles gently before the clouds stuff its mouth with cotton candy and the sun cannot smile no more.

I pull out my course reader out of the drawer and open the page where in his ‘Defense of poetry’ Shelley has taken a crap. It bores me and I feel sleepy again. I replace it. I flick through one more of Mistry’s stories, ‘Collectors’ from his book Swimming lessons and other short stories from Firoshabagh. The story is about a boy who is a stamp collector and the things he does to fill up his book. I place my empty mug with froth sticking on its insides on the table. I contemplate doing some writing exercises, but reckon that it can wait till evening. The rain has stopped. I decide to go for a walk. 

I take half an hour to get ready, even though I don’t take a bath. I lock my room. I carry an umbrella just in case. I walk to the shopping mall nearby to purchase some food. That’s all I’ve been doing since I’ve come to Australia. One of the miseries of being an international student is the rate at which your food gets over. You might find yourself making a bowlful of noodles, but within a matter of seconds, and without even a semblance of satisfaction or fulfillment of having had a meal, you will notice the noodles disappearing into the dark, suddenly infinite corners of your mouth and then the stomach, till you slow your pace to a deadly halt, twirling your fork at the last remnants of the spicy noodles with the hope and optimism that it will somehow, magically reappear or refurbish itself.
 
The blonde girl at the counter shoves three plastic bags in my hand. Milk and bread in one bag. Cookies and canned baked beans, another bag and washing powder in another one. I hate carrying multiple bags. They hang heavily, their thin edges cutting through my fingers. It starts raining again. Pitter, patter.  I open my cheap, made-in-China umbrella – one of its spokes has a limp, which is not evident when it is wrapped up, but comes to light when I open it. It falls loosely and flaps in the air like a flag of the Anarchists. Water splashes from its edges on to my pants and jacket. On my way I pass a truck. ‘Just Chip’ it read. For all your chipping and cutting needs – mulch sales, tree cutting, land clearing, lopping – it said in bold green color – as if writing it in green will not piss the tree as much. Its motor whirs like a hungry monster and laps up every twig, branch, and leaves that are thrown at it. It lets out black smoke like a fart every time it finishes chewing.

Everything looks so fresh when it rains. I pass a tree with baby maple leaves, which looks adorable in yellow and green shades with its tiny pointed leaves like a newborn’s fingers. Cars screech by on the road. When they pass the section of the road where the rain water is stagnant, the tires make a sound like they are passing through a graveled road. An elongated swissshhhhh sound and then on smooth road again – silent.  The tires dig the water out at a furious pace like dogs scooping out mud with their hind legs.

It’s a long walk and I try to make it bearable by thinking how wonderful nature is. I climb up the stairs of my unit, set the bags on the table and look for my key. I don’t find it in my pant’s left or right pocket. I don’t find it my any of the pockets in my jacket. I look in my pant pockets again, as it would reappear. My hands go all over my body and I have a casual glance to see if any of my housemates are around or they might think that I am touching myself inappropriately. I run out. Who will pay an extra $50 for a new set of keys to the landlord? I go all the way to the shopping mall looking for my key like a hunting dog sniffing a criminal’s trail. I don’t find it. I come home. Soaked and panting. I try to speak when my landlord says hello. I only manage to wave my shivering hand. I walk up the stairs, picturing myself spending the night on the cold, wooden dining table in the kitchen. Just as I climb the last of the steps, a shining metal object catches my eye. It’s got a twinkle in its eye. Like it’s saying, “Remember, ‘The Alchemist?’ Son of a gun.