Rose rain

Author: Hu Xin
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-08-01
Features: The drizzle of late spring dusk is crisp, nourishing yet melancholic. It's neither rain nor mist, drifting lightly and hazy. Once it seeps into the rooftops, streets, and the bustling crowds, the poetry vanishes, replaced by a muddled clamor, yet undeniably warm. The once noble Ruzi Lane and the sacred South Sea Palace area have long been widened into an ordinary, featureless concrete road, now called Ruzi Road. It stretches east to the Red City's central Ba Yi Avenue and west to the Taohua Village on the west bank of the Fu River outside Jinxiang Gate. The road isn't wide, with both sides occupied by, colorful small shops. Between the shops, vendors squeeze into every available space, shouting to attract customers: "Hot dumplings—aromatic tea eggs—Qingming cakes and fruits!" The women behind the shop counters are mostly young and fashionable, heavily made up, their clothes adorned with sparkling scales and jewels. Their bodies sway, as if lost in the frenetic rhythms of contemporary pop stars' wild, roaring music. Their eyes wander, seemingly watching but not truly seeing the hurried crowds passing by.
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"My home is on the Loess Plateau, the sun climbs over the hill"
"I once asked you endlessly when you'd walk with me"
"Sister, you boldly go forward—"
The rough, hoarse, wild, almost screaming lyrics shed their pretense of elegance, yet vividly pour out the raw essence of life. This essence crashes through the crowd. Perhaps the songs serve as a cultural enlightenment for the masses. Reckless brothers ride bicycles almostly, while sisters are bolder, their bright red and green raincoats and stylish flower umbrellas carelessly rushing into the street, ignoring the curses of drivers swerving past.
During the evening rush hour, the young workers are all proper folks. Outside of work hours—going home, eating, dating, attending dances, going to night school, frequenting various trendy salons, rushing to secure TV and refrigerator coupons, meeting friends and chatting endlessly—can they afford to waste a second? There's also friction and.
"Son of a bitch, you're blind? You're riding over my waist?"
"You little punk! Thinking you can mess with me?"
Some shout in support, while others yell, seemingly trying to mediate but failing: "What's the fuss? You're already full before eating?"
Meanwhile, the middle-aged men with hunched backs, whether cycling or walking, shrink away like startled birds to the edges of the road. Their nylon bags, slung over handlebars or fingers, contain meager fare—a bunch of scallions, two lettuce stalks, and a small piece of pork. On such days and at such times, it's best not to join the commotion or cause trouble—just go home! Go home! With elders above and children below, their steps are hurried, their shoulders heavy, as if carrying an invisible burden.
Ah, the young people today! Their teenage restlessness! Excess calories! How different from our youth! Their eyes are lost, as if both gaining and losing in this mediocre, bustling street scene. The hurried crowds. Among them stands a woman, neither rushed nor fidgety, nor burdened. She moves lightly amidst the crowd, her demeanor and emotions like a sleepwalker lost in the night, mesmerized by the darkness.
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