Rain

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

It was the pitter patter sound that woke Simran up. The sound of steady fall of water droplets, on her glass window,

The rain seemed to come down in sheets. Everything was wet, washed  and the leaves actually looked fresh and green.

This particular shade of green was something she had seen, way back in time, when she was carefree, young and deeply in love.

A period of time, when Simran used to hop onto a local to Lonavala, to trek the Western Ghats along with the love of her life, Raj, and the incessant rain would caress her curves while the mesmerizing greenery would intoxicate her.

Her utterly smitten Raj would share hot cups of masala chai with his Simran as they bundled together, quivering and shivering.

Simran Verma stole a glance towards her husband, Raj Verma, snoring away, utterly unmindful of the beauty of nature, dancing right in front of him, and sighed wistfully.

Her mobile sprang to life. ” MemSaab, Not coming for work today. It is raining cats and dogs”.

The phone was disconnected even before Simran could utter a word.

“Oh these bloody bloody *&^%* rains!!”

On a Rainy Day

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

Once, during a rainy day, my dad had this irresistible urge to eat an ice-cream. That too Nirula’s hot chocolate fudge! Mom, as is usual, thought this was way beyond silly. That too, at his age! That made my dad all the more determined to have that delectable ice-cream.
So, just to have peace, I took out his red Maruti ( Non-AC) and bundled us into the car. As we opened the windows to keep the heat out, we got drenched. Mom, now was game for some hot beverage.

As luck would have it, Nirulas had shut for maintenance. Dad’s face had become small and he refused to share the umbrella with mom as we walked back to our car. Tiny droplets of rain began to trickle down his mustache and an almighty argument started between the two.
As the dark clouds threatened to unload, the dulcet voice of Lata began to fill the air. “Lag ja gale ki Phir ye..” The song was playing on the rickety radio set of the chai-wala across the road. Dad and mom fell silent for a second to savor the song.
Mom suddenly walked across the road and muttered something to the chai-wala, who then looked at dad and smiled broadly. Dad, unable to contain his curiosity, joined them, albeit unwillingly. The chai-wala then shut the radio off, much to the irritation of dad.
Mom handed dad, a piping hot cup of chai and sang the same beautiful number. “Lag ja gale ki Phir ye..”
And Dad? He smiled broadly, twirled his mustache, touched her wet ringlets and gave a peck on mom’s red cheeks. Chai tasted better too.
I am yet to see more romance packed in a singular moment.

Water-2

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

Water

 

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