The Promise

The first drops of rain cooled dry, parched earth that had baked to the mid-forties over the last few months. The air felt magically sharp. The just-about-wet dust was fragrant with that gentle smell called saundhi in the local language.

Neha stretched her hand to let a few drops fall on her palm and trickle down her long fingers. “O’ my great artist!”, Nikhil would’ve teased her. But then, the first shower was magical. Wasn’t that how Nikhil first met her, as she stood all alone in a rain-swept gallery at college? “Are you a poet?” he’d abruptly asked, interrupting her reverie.

They’d a whirlwind courtship. Days seemed to have passed in a blur of laughter, bunked classes, shared coffees, teasing and holding hands; days of gentle rain. They were engaged after monsoon, and married by the year-end. In what seemed a short while, they’d graduated, found jobs, set up home, occasionally quarrelling over things like the color of living room curtains.

Nikhil’s work required a great deal of travel to the cities close by, but he’d make sure to drive back home no matter how late in the night. After one such trip Neha stayed up all night only to hear news of the headlong crash, “nobody’s fault, just bad judgment, fate”. A year after she’d begun to recover, she’d moved to a new city to begin anew.

She forced herself back to the present. “It doesn’t rain in quite the same way in Mumbai”, she murmured. That was right. There, the heavens opened out with all their might and beat down with furious, businesslike intent, much like the city. No one stood a while to smell the first rain.

This trip, she’d picked her treasures. Now she had no reason to return.

( for sub, 293 words)