As he runs in the rain which grows heavier by the minutes, rainwater obscuring his vision, he remembers another rainy evening from years ago, when he was running too in the shadow of a range of hills with many silver tongues of waterfalls next to a suburban train barreling towards Bombay (a city which was only visible as a glare or a portent on the horizon in the distance) - an evening in which he was attempting to outrun the overwhelming sensation of being forsaken, abandoned, rid of all hope under a stormy thundering darkness. He remembers that evening as he mixes and drinks a cocktail of tears and rain now. And it occurs to him that even though he has switched countries and cities, the rock-salty taste of emptiness, and of despair doesn't change.