His Rain.

Rain

“My god, it’s so romantic. These rains in Mumbai, they make the city blossom.”

He was thinking exactly this while he deftly dodged three potholes but the fourth (the largest, most fearful of them all, ladies and gentlemen) grabbed him, swung him around and soiled his shoes and pants around the ankles. “Oooh, I just love it when that happens. The heavens are smiling down upon us.”

He looked up, and around him. His morning commute spared but a minute for him to do so. A few seconds was all that was needed by him to peer in the windows. Boys and girls sniggered back at him. Smiling at the rain, smiling at each other. Their mothers and grandmothers would call them inside and send them back with a roasted/boiled bhutta. The school would’ve sent them back to home because of the rains. Hence they smirked. They laughed the most vicious laughter. Cruel paper-boats floated like ghosts and vanished in a blink, while devil-children who sent them jumped in the puddles and splashed water around them.

“How cute, it makes my heart turn into a strawberry tart!” he thought to himself as he jumped over another puddle. The umbrella was a joke. His clothes were a joke. His leather shoes protested and his white shirt was about to cry. When he was a few feet away from the office gate, he saw her coming towards him, half soaked and happy because she was half soaked.

“I love the rains,” he heard her say. “Finally they are here. How awesome, isn’t it?”

The daylight that struggled to reach to him through those clouds felt good. He allowed a few drops to caress his face. For the first time in 27 years, his monsoon was here.

Image from Getty
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