First touch of Rain.

The horror movie had been her idea.

Volume high. Lights off. Blanket pulled up like it could do anything.

She lasted seven minutes.

On screen, a door opened on its own.

“AAAH!”

Her hand gripped my arm. Nails, not gentle.

I looked at her.

“Main bhi darr raha hoon, par tum toh chudai kol bhi dara deti hai… tumhe kyun dar lag raha hai?”

“Shh… koi hai.”

Her eyes were wide. Holding the expression longer than needed.

“Tum jo ye aankhen badi karke darati ho, yeh tumhari Bengali roots hain na?”

“Main Bengali nahi hoon.”

“Intent toh wahi hai.”

She reached for a cushion. Didn’t throw it. Just kept it between us for a second, then dropped it and leaned closer instead. Just a word “Swaha” she said. Just one word.
“Spooky.” I said excitedly.

Outside, the wind had started building. The balcony door rattled once. Then again. The first drop hit the glass. Then a few more, scattered, finding their rhythm.

On screen, the character was walking down a corridor that looked exactly like every other corridor in every horror movie.

Then the lights went out.

Perfect timing.

The room fell into darkness. For a second, neither of us moved. Then lightning cut through the window and disappeared just as quickly.

Her grip tightened.

And then she laughed.

“Of course.”

“Director ko bolte hain, next time bijli board se tie-up kar le.”

She exhaled, still half close to me. Then suddenly straightened.

“Arre.”

“Kya hua?”

“Chhat pe kapde sukhaye thay.”

She was already reaching for her phone. Flashlight on. Blanket gone. Fear postponed.

“I’ll get them.”

“I’m coming.”

“Daroge toh nahi? Upar andhera hai.”

“Shaktiman ka fan hu. Kayi kilvish aye aur gaye madam.”

She smiled, already moving.

The stairs were slightly damp. The wind met us halfway up, colder than expected. When she pushed the terrace door open, it came with a resistance, like the storm had a say in it.

Clothes were already pulling at their clips. A shirt twisted around itself. A dupatta halfway off the line.

“Jaldi,” she said.

She moved fast. Efficient. Pull, unclip, fold without folding. I took the other side. The wind didn’t care.

One T-shirt slipped out of my hand and lifted for a second before dropping somewhere behind us.

“Pakado na!”

“Dekho ab tum tharki ho rahi ho. I’m trying.”

Another gust. Stronger.

And then my underwear my precious kaccha.

Straight off the line. No hesitation. Gone.

She stopped for a second. Just long enough to register it.

“Accha hua,” she said, picking up another piece. “Bohot chhed thay usme.”

I looked at her.

“Mujhe pata tha teri nazar mere kachche pe hi thi.”

She pressed her lips together. Didn’t work.

“Kya buraai thi usme… sirf do chhed extra thay. Tumhe toh meri fikar hi nahi hai. Do jagah hawa zyada lagti thi usse.”

I added a pause. Looked at the sky like something meaningful had just been lost.

“Emotionally attached tha main.”

“Shok sabha rakhte hain kal.”

“Close friends and family only.”

She laughed properly now. The kind that breaks rhythm. The wind pushed her hair across her face. She brushed it aside without thinking, still gathering whatever was left.

“Tum yeh pakado,” she said, handing me a pile, then taking it back almost immediately. “Nahi, tum gira doge.”

“Trust issues.”

“Evidence hai.”

She rushed downstairs with the bundle.

I stayed back.

The terrace felt larger suddenly. The wind louder when you weren’t talking over it. My shirt had started sticking to my back.

When she came back up, I was still standing there.

She slowed down when she saw me.

“Mila?” she asked.

“Mujhe lagta hai ab woh azaad hai.”

She came closer. Close enough to see my face properly even in the low light.

Then softer.

“Aww, mera baccha.”

She hugged me.

No joke in it.

Warm. Immediate.

I held her back. For a second longer than casual.

Then both of us laughed. Quietly this time.

That’s when the rain started.

Not gradual. Just there. Heavy.

I stepped back instinctively.

“Chalo andar.”

She didn’t move.

She stood where she was. Face tilted up. Eyes closed. Arms slightly away from her body.

The rain hit her first, then spread across everything.

“Ae Manjolika bheeg jaogi. Pagal ho kya?”

No response.

She turned slowly. Not performing. Just moving because she felt like it.

I stayed near the door.

Watching.

There was nothing dramatic about it. No background score. No perfect framing. Just her, getting soaked, like this was the only thing that made sense right now.

She opened her eyes and looked at me.

“Idhar aao.”

“Thand lag jayegi.”

“Doctor tum ho ya mai?”

“Kaisi doctor ho yar tum...”

She smiled. Turned again. This time faster. Water trailing off her hair.

I stepped out.

The first second was always the hardest. Cold. Sudden. Then it settled.

She caught my hand.

“Let’s Dance.”

“Mujhe nahi aata.”

“Mujhe bhi nahi aata.”

We did it anyway.

No steps. Just shifting weight, getting in each other’s way, laughing when we messed up, which was constant.

At one point she slipped slightly. I caught her.

“Hero banne ka mauka mil gaya,” I said.

“Background mein music nahi hai.”

“Budget khatam.”

She leaned into me for a second. Not as a joke.

The rain got heavier. Our kiss got mixed in rain water.

I moved her hair away from her face. She didn’t react. Just stood there, close.

“Chalein?” I asked.

“Thoda aur.”

So we stayed.

A little longer.

Then we went down.

Wet footprints followed us inside. The living room was still dark. The TV a black rectangle.

She went straight to the bathroom.

“Pehle main.”

“By all means.”

The door closed.

I sat on the sofa. Water dripping off my sleeves onto the floor. The room smelled different. Damp. Slightly cold.

After a few minutes, she came out. Dry clothes. Hair wrapped in a towel.

“Baby chai banaoge?,” she said.

“Order de rahi ho ya pooch rahi ho?”

“Dono.”

I went to the kitchen. No lights yet. Gas on. The small blue flame felt more reliable than anything else at the moment.

Crushed ginger. Water. Tea leaves.

She came and sat on the counter.

“It was good,” she said.

“What?”

“Power cut.”

“Electricity board ko thanks bolte hain.”

She smiled.

We took the tea back to the sofa. Shared the blanket again. She pulled more of it without acknowledging it.

“Ab dar nahi lag raha?” I asked.

“Abhi nahi.”

“Movie finish karni hai?”

“Kal.”

She rested her head on my shoulder.

Her fingers traced something absent-mindedly on my hand. No pattern. No intention.

Outside, the rain had slowed.