And it rained that night…..

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The sweltering Indian heat took it’s toll. Around 46 degree celsius, it left no one with mercy. The only game left was to wait…..Come rain, Come again….fill the lives and seal the pain.
When you bleed, you see the pain. What when you don’t (bleed)! That’s the time you feel the pang – a sharp, shooting, unabashed and ingrained clot which refuses to bleed. And after awhile it becomes a part of your life. You just live with it. Maybe it tricks you to live with it.
As tricky are the ways of the world, even if we know, when everything is not in our hand but then we hopelessly try to seize and pursue. We are just hopelessly hopeful in that sense.

The slithering sweat on his face gave a testimony…the culprit was not just the summer heat that added to the messiness. But, behind those sticky fluids were hidden few drops of unwanted tears which just drifted unaware.

It was not a lover’s tiff nor an amorous banter. For him, she was not just love. She was more than that. She was the only emotion he felt for a while. She was that human touch he sensed in a while. She was like that last straw for a drowning man. To him, she was Hope. Chasing hope was not easy and when you had it all, letting it go was way harder.
But love was not enough! With that came the fears, apprehensions, distrust and then, time to commit. To commit in love was not enough, to commit with marriage was.

” I am not afraid of commitment. Commitment is not an issue, trust is. Does the bond we shared was of any worth? Is love not above everything. Why the validation? Why the rush! I guess love too needs a warranty. She gave me an ultimatum; utterly crude and childish. She never trusted me. I feel marriage is not for one and all.” He mulled over.

While lost in thoughts, the engine abruptly made a sudden, screeching noise; with that a thud and then halt. The car just stopped unexpectedly in the middle of nowhere. May be it was wearied and drained, just as much as him. The area was desolate and outskirt. There was a need for some fresh air after that long aimless wandering to nowhere.

In his distant vision he could see a house. It looked deserted and as if, forsaken. As he approached near the house …. it stood there erect, like rejected and discarded in that intense unbearable quietude. The exterior was unkempt with lively undergrowth of thickets. The windows were dusty and stained pleading to be revealed.
The unused and almost rotten cane furniture in the front porch(veranda) was urging to be occupied. A cracked mossy cricket bat masked under the foliage(greens) in front of the garden area, was longing to be gripped. A discoloured bangle with slight golden patches lay there on that muddy soil was bitterly smiling, with the hope to be worn again.

There was a void, an emptiness lingering. An emptiness as if the house is begging to be touched, to be felt and to be lived once again. The air was heavy but not eerie rather something warm and engaging about it as if desperate of being alone, trying to tell a story.

Once there lived a boy around nine may be. He lived with his mom and dad. It was a family of love, fondness and devotion. It was a home for these three people who were inseparable, as if three bodies but one soul. They lived happily and merrily, at least the boy thought so. At nine, all you need is loving care and protection and the rest, you leave that to your parent to tackle and persevere. Carefree and nonchalant were those days of innocence and childhood.

That tattered cricket bat reminded him of those eager, wishful lazy Sunday noons, when father used to coach him a trick or two; rather say drilled the techniques of the game. To the little boy’s mind, those were mostly bouncers; again a word taught by Dad while practising. But what he looked forward to were those brief male bonding times. It used to make him feel little grown up. How mom used to rush and put some sweet pieces of his favourite Sultanas(dried seedless grapes) on his mouth in between and would tell him to hurry up as it’s time to take a bath. How the cricket buddies will plead for that extra ten minutes and then it will add upto twenty more. That’s it. They have to be ready for the consequences now.

But then almost like nothing happened she will persuade him, little angrily though, and march along with him towards the bathroom. While they walked together, the sounds of those bangles on her wrists were as tender and sweet as sultanas, his favourites. Then the family will share some warm delectable meal together cooked with mom’s loving touch. They will share laughters and pains, some occasional stress and strains, dreams and aspirations, hopes and apprehensions all along together being a family. Didn’t I tell you, they were like three bodies in one soul. That closer.

His birthday was closer too and the excitement ran along with it. He was going to cross the single digit tag. So many plans chalked out by him and mom, and dad too. It was going to be a good affair. It was going to be a hell of a party with a ceremony(prayer).
The ceremony did happen but it was mother’s last rites, just three days before he would have hit ten.
At nine, his innocence mercifully shielded his sadness. After months of tears and grief, he helplessly struggled to cope. Dad became his friend, caretaker and mentor. He sold the house as every corner smelled and whispered of mom’s presence.

Quite painstakingly they trailed a new beginning. But the tragedy was not over yet. Within next two years, he lost his only guide and nurturer too. He was hardly twelve at that point of time. After mom’s death, Dad was never the same. He walked, talked and sometimes laughed too. But he was damaged beyond repair. She completed him. And now he lived incomplete. Their love was deep and boundless. He was like a dead soul in living body for those last two years, before dad died.

From that time on, life did never looked the same. He was not just a genetic legacy to them. He was their reflection. And when the bodies evaporated with the soul, the disturbed shadow struggled for it’s existence every second. He did do anything to get them back in flesh and blood. Though he lived a mortal life to read, sleep and eat in that order….he was living a life of gradual death with a numbed existence. He was like a lost soul, then after. Then she came like a tiny shaft of light, at the end of the tunnel.
Why always life puts you in the crossroads which you don’t want to face? It’s the same old wretched circle!

A few fine drops of drizzle on his face just smacked him out of his trance. There he was, standing in front of that wretched house and his past memories haunted and then slapped him hard. He cried out loud – still grieving, whimpering and lamenting. A dark sullen cry as if forced out of a deeper dark labyrinth of sadness, remorse, angst and above all fear.
All these while he kept it inside him subconsciously, in the core of his heart like a raw tender sore unhealed and unattended. He was in denial, struck in the past. A past ingrained with pain and woeful circumstances. And all these while the universe stood their in silence, in awe to witness pitifully that little boy’s misfortune.

But after the heartfelt cry, which unleashed the inner hidden monster, he felt relieved, as light as a feather, for the first time in his life. It looked as if Fear has made him suffer more than it was capable of. He always ran…ran away far adrift from anything called family or home.

Back to his conscious self, he suddenly felt that stifling humid temperature dribbling down his skin. The temperature might have raised upto that unbearable 48 degrees by now. The dark gray clouds rumbled and thundered with it’s all gathered might. The tiny soothing droplets filled his palm and then his face. With each roar the rainfall picked up its momentum.

And it rained that night….as if it never rained like that before. It rained heavily and poured densely and washed away with it, some jitters and few misgivings. He was fully drenched with nature’s kindness.
‘Only when we are no longer afraid, we do begin to live’, he reflected on the quote which he read somewhere.

He rushed towards the car to find some shelter. He took a deep sigh and picked the book lying over the front passenger seat. He started reading from where he left. The lines said:
Don’t give in to your fears. If you do, you won’t be able to talk to your heart.”
― Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

There appeared a teeny weeny smirk on his face. And then a smile; earnest, aware and glad for where he stands today and what life might offer him tomorrow; a sincere chance to live a life truly once again.
He picked up his phone and made a call. The very first expression which mumbled out of his mouth in sheer delight was,

“Let’s get married.”

 

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This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

 

 

 

80 thoughts on “And it rained that night…..

  1. That’s an amazing story. Loved it Chaitali. I would go to the extent that this was your best post I have read. May be because I love short stories.

    Looking forward to more stories from you πŸ™‚

    Have a great day.

  2. Hello,

    Here I am Chaitali, honouring your invitation. I did read your poems. They are pretty classic. But this..what you’ve essayed here, is no less special. Coelho’s inspiration has been artfully depicted in “And it rained that night…..”.

    I loved your story and I am impressed with your writing. It is clear, easy, lets one connect with your characters and leaves the effect you desire on your readers.

    Wish you wonderful words, more & more of ’em.

  3. I love your story. It was so poignant. I felt like I was experiencing it with you. The closer I got to the end, the more I hoped it would have the ending it did. And it did! Finding and releasing grief is so powerful and healing.

  4. I was sad for most if the read till he makes the call….and I loved the description of the house ….the lost glass bangle…beautiful ❀❀❀

  5. Do we really need validation for the relationships Chitali!!!!!!!!!!……… As a growing girl who wants to live everything in her definitions never got an answer for this question!!!!!!………..

    So well written Chitali, a story must read by all…:)

  6. You are such a gifted writer Chitali….I loved this story. It drew me in and I could feel his sorrow and then feel him wiped clean after the downpour…beautiful…

  7. Beautiful ! I liked your narration. The emotions and the loneliness of the boys heart have been beautifully depicted. Yes, you need to let go to be able to live again.

  8. “But after the heartfelt cry, which unleashed the inner hidden monster, he felt relieved, as light as a feather, for the first time in his life. It looked as if Fear has made him suffer more than it was capable of. He always ran…ran away far adrift from anything called family or home.”

    Very beautiful and touching lines. I really loved it.

  9. Relief at the end! I kept hoping something would happen to make it all come good at the end, wonderful storytelling. You balance plot and emotion very nicely.

  10. Chaitali you should be so proud of yourself dear. Amazing depiction, description, the woven characters and the scenes…the description that you have given about the old house brought chills in me and I almost cried with him when he unleashed the monster…..I hate sad ending and I was hoping to not see one. …I badly wanted to write for this, but had some prior engagements that I couldn’t ….If only I could nominate this story for an award…..this is a WOW post for me.

    • What am I without my readers. And when you give me feedback like this…it makes me feel really good and then weak on my knees… I can understand your situation as I have a six year old boy and it’s monsoon and sickness and other engagements etc…hope you make it up for the next time. Let me share one stuff…. I generally don’t write for prompts as I feel little discomfort being clutched with a theme…May be I am weird. I write what my heart says. But then this time the prompt was too good to let go. So I was already working on this story in my mind…just incorporated the title…I am glad you felt it. Thanks once again.

      • You are definitely not weird Chaitali…I too am hesitant to write for contest or posts that had time limits. But my story is different cos, I am still very new in this world of blogging. But you are a pro…glad that this WOW post call just fell in place for you and we could all enjoy it….have a great day

  11. Beautifully written… special mention to the discoloured bangle hoping to be worn again and the image of mum rushing to put Sultanas in his mouth… poignant.The great thing about good writing (like yours) is, it allow the reader to feel and grasp as per his/her feelings,nature and experience of life … for me the feeding Sultanas,the tender,sweet music of bangles will be the lingering image which has forced me to comment teary eyed …repeating myself..poignant.
    Glad he overcame his fears and it ended happily… πŸ™‚

  12. aseemrastogi2 says:

    A lovely short story Chaitali. The way you have described the emotions and all the characters is amazing :).

  13. Chaithalee i started reading this only because i had nothing else to do.boy oh boy in near future i don’t think i will get to read a gem like this from any other blog.what should i say you are being nice and kind to me by reading my small blog.God bless you and your family πŸ™‚

      1. Humility is the one thing which brings true content coz we have seen the mightiest of empire crumble…what am I…. I am nothing if I can’t share or if my readers don’t read me….thank you for such genuine appreciation. It helps me in keep going.
  14. Hello. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to read your blog again. I really enjoyed this story, and you make the reader hope that, after all, the end will be a happy one. Keep writing.

  15. Chaitali, is this fiction? I have a strange feeling it is not! I guess it’s how you’ve described the fine details that makes it hard to believe it is fiction. Incredible indeed.
    I could almost see that smile on his face when he picked up the phone – the kind of self-satisfied smile you wear when you feel liberated, unlocked..

    • Omg! It’s totally fiction although have tried to infuse the theme and quote which was on my mind to go along with….honestly when I wrote the piece I literally had to think like a man even if being a woman….your comment is too generous…thank you…

  16. This is painfully beautiful. At so many levels. The turning point of ‘ceremony’ is very well sewn into the narrative that it acts as a subtle point of influx, how the narrative is changed. Loved it Chaitali.

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