The first raindrops of July arrived unannounced, tapping gently on the roof of the university library. Amrita looked up from her notebook, her pen mid-sentence, as the sound grew into a soft, urgent patter. She rose and walked toward the tall arched window. The glass blurred with streaks of rain, and beyond it, the sprawling lawn shimmered like wet velvet. Students scattered with bags over their heads, laughing and squealing as they ran toward shelter.
Behind her, the dusty scent of old books mixed with petrichor drifted into the air, and with it came a rush of memories—of damp uniforms, window seats, and a boy who once offered her half his tiffin under a shared umbrella.
Tushar.
It had been over a month since their confrontation in the café. After all the years, all the memories, the air between them had become thick with unsaid truths. She had left abruptly, overwhelmed, vowing to put the past where it belonged. But silence was a poor adhesive—it didn't seal things shut, it only let them seep, slowly, inevitably.
The library door creaked, and she turned. Professor Mahajan walked in, nodding at her before settling into a corner seat. Amrita returned to her desk, but her mind remained far from the colonial corridors of Indian history. Instead, it lingered on her phone screen, on the unsent message she had typed more than once.
"We were both hurt. I want to talk."
She hadn't sent it. Maybe he didn't deserve the first word. Maybe she wasn't ready. Maybe she still didn't know what she wanted from him.
The rain continued.
---
Tushar had always loved the monsoon. He would lean out of his window in Baner, feel the wind kiss his face, and imagine all the music the city played when the skies opened. But today, it made him restless.
He sat in his art studio, brush in hand, a half-finished canvas before him. A muted storm of blue and gray clouds loomed over a figure standing at the edge of a field—her back turned, her dupatta fluttering like a flag caught between surrender and defiance.
He hadn't painted Amrita intentionally. At least that's what he told himself.
He had tried to bury himself in work. The art gallery in Koregaon Park had offered him a two-week exhibition slot. His pieces were being appreciated, some even sold. People were finally noticing his craft. He had every reason to feel fulfilled.
But she was the thread that still pulled at his insides.
He reached for his phone, scrolled aimlessly. Her last message blinked back at him: "Take care of yourself." Three weeks old. A digital fossil.
His thumb hovered over her name.
Should I call her? Apologize? Or would it seem like weakness?
He remembered how her eyes looked that day—furious, glassy with betrayal. But underneath that, there had been something else too. A longing, perhaps. A hope that their bond could still be salvaged.
He tossed the phone aside and looked out the window.
She's not coming back just because it's raining, he thought. You ruined that.
But even as he tried to dismiss it, something inside him stirred. An instinct. A memory. A wish.
---
Three days passed. The rain stayed.
It was Saturday afternoon when Amrita received a parcel. Her name was written in thick strokes on brown wrapping paper, no sender mentioned. Curious, she opened it.
Inside lay a journal. Leather-bound, speckled with paint. Her breath caught.
On the first page, in familiar handwriting, it read:
"To the girl who never left the window seat. The monsoon remembers."
Her hands trembled.
Each page that followed was filled with sketches. Quick, emotional renderings. A school bus. A girl with two braids staring out a window. A bench by the lake. A paper boat with 'T + A' written on its sail. The café where they had fought—drawn from a distance, two figures sitting with oceans of space between them.
The last sketch was of a narrow lane lined with gulmohar trees. The lane near their old school. And below it, one line:
"Let's meet where it all began."
Her heart beat like a drum in her chest.
---
Sunday morning arrived drenched in fog. Amrita stood at the end of the lane, clutching the journal. The red blossoms of the gulmohar trees had formed a carpet beneath her feet. Her breath clouded in the cool air. The silence of the place felt sacred—like an old secret unburied.
Then she heard footsteps.
Tushar walked toward her slowly, hands in his pockets, damp hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes searched hers—not for forgiveness, but for recognition. For a sign that she still remembered who he was beneath the mistakes.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," he said, stopping a few feet away.
"I wasn't sure either," she replied, her voice steady.
The silence stretched. Neither of them rushed to fill it.
Then she held up the journal. "This… you didn't have to."
"I know. But I needed to."
She traced the cover with her fingers. "Do you really think we can go back?"
Tushar shook his head. "No. I don't want to go back. I want to go forward—with everything we've learned."
She looked at him, the boy she had once loved like breathing. The man who had walked with her through seasons of joy and sorrow. And she saw him not as the person who had hurt her, but as someone who had stayed—flawed, broken, trying.
"I missed you," she whispered.
"I missed us," he said.
She took a tentative step forward. "Then let's find out who we are now. Together."
Tushar smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that."
They stood beneath the gulmohar trees, not as children playing make-believe, but as two people choosing each other again. The rain began to fall once more—softly, slowly, like a promise.
---
Moral of the Chapter:
True friendship doesn't erase pain—it grows through it. When hearts are willing, even the stormiest past can lead to a peaceful present.