The monsoon arrived like a forgotten memory—unexpected, forceful, and unrelenting. Mumbai's skyline blurred under the thick grey sheets of rain, and the city, as always, sputtered and coughed before surrendering to the deluge. Roads turned into brooks, autos stalled mid-ride, and every Mumbaikar knew: this wasn't just a downpour, it was a siege.
Amrita sat by her window, a cup of cold chai in her hand, untouched for hours. She watched the rain crawl down the glass in slender rivulets, a mirror of her thoughts. It had been a week since Tushar's sudden trip to Kolkata—a trip she wasn't invited to. No message, no call. Nothing. Just a forwarded flight ticket to their shared WhatsApp group and a short text: "Need to go. Urgent. Don't ask. Will call."
She hadn't asked. She hadn't called either.
But silence is a demanding house guest. It sits across your table, sleeps beside your pillow, and reads every message on your phone twice, just to be sure.
Her phone buzzed. Her eyes darted to it, hope sprinting and falling in a single heartbeat. It wasn't him. Just a forwarded meme from her cousin.
She opened their old chats—the ones stacked with photos of shared breakfasts, rants about office, voice notes at 2 a.m., poems that Tushar never admitted writing but she always knew were his.
"Damn you," she whispered, "you said no running away."
Downstairs, the building's watchman was yelling at a food delivery guy. The poor boy was drenched, holding up a leaking brown bag. Life was stubborn, refusing to pause, even when hearts wanted to.
At 7:42 p.m., her phone finally rang.
Tushar calling.
She didn't answer.
It rang again. She muted it.
A third time. She picked up.
"What?" Her voice was colder than the monsoon wind.
There was a pause. Not even static. Just a vacuum.
"I'm outside," Tushar said, finally. "I didn't know where else to go."
She didn't reply. Just ended the call.
Moments later, a knock. Not the doorbell. A knock. Like the kind from school days—secretive, guilty, hopeful.
She opened it. He stood there, hair plastered to his forehead, soaked in mud and monsoon. His right hand held a torn tote bag. His left held a crumpled bouquet of wet lilies.
"Seriously?" she said, staring at the flowers. "Lilies? In this weather?"
"I panicked."
"You panicked."
He stepped in without waiting. She didn't stop him.
She folded her arms as he placed the tote on the table and started pulling out its contents: a small Ganpati idol wrapped in bubble wrap, an old photograph of a woman in a green saree, a steel tiffin carrier, and a crumpled notebook.
"My Ma passed away last Sunday," he said, softly.
Everything in the room stopped. Even the rain sounded quieter.
"I didn't tell you because... I didn't know how. She was the last string to home, Amrita. After Baba left and Di moved abroad, Ma was it. And I didn't want to drag you into grief that had nothing to do with you."
"You idiot," she said, barely able to speak. "You absolute idiot."
She walked to him, slapped his shoulder once, and then hugged him so tight he dropped the notebook.
"You're my best friend," she whispered into his shoulder. "Your grief is mine. Your mother was mine too."
He nodded into her hair.
They sat by the window, two warm shadows against the storm. He told her everything. How Ma had been sick for months but never told him. How he got a call from the neighbor, not his sister. How he flew to Kolkata only to see Ma on a stretcher. How she'd kept a note for him in Bengali, asking if he still remembered the mustard oil in his childhood hair.
"I don't even know how to grieve," he confessed. "Everything feels fake. I didn't even cry properly at the cremation. I just kept nodding at relatives and signing papers."
"That's grief too," she said. "It doesn't come in black and white. Sometimes it's grey, like this rain."
He pulled out the notebook again and handed it to her.
"Found this in her almirah. She wrote things down. Poems. Quotes. Letters. One of them... was to you."
Amrita blinked.
"She knew me?"
"She remembered the girl who once sent me a rakhi in class 6. She remembered the girl I fought with and then forgave. She saw your name in every message I showed her."
Amrita opened the notebook. The handwriting was old but neat. One page had her name.
"To Amrita – If you're still with him, thank you. If you're not, find your way back. He needs a north star, and you've always been his."
Tears welled up. Not of sorrow, but something deeper—grace.
They stayed silent for a long time. Words weren't needed.
At 10:00 p.m., the rain finally paused, as if exhausted.
"You're staying the night," she said.
"I didn't bring clothes."
"Good. That means you won't run."
They made instant noodles in the kitchen, arguing over how much masala to add. He burnt the first packet. She mocked him.
Later, they sat on the floor with pillows, watching an old black-and-white movie they both hated but pretended to love. There was comfort in familiarity.
As the credits rolled, he looked at her and said, "Do you think we'll be okay?"
"We already are," she replied. "We fight, we vanish, we return. We're not perfect, Tushar. We're permanent."
He smiled. It was the kind of smile that carried pain, memory, and a quiet promise.
Outside, the rain started again.
But inside, the silence had left.
---
Moral: True friendship does not require constant presence. It only demands constant return.
Some storms are meant to cleanse, not destroy.