Neha Srivastava A couple of years later, it was pouring rain when a man I loved drove me up the winding mountain road on his green Bajaj scooter for our first weekend away. We stopped at a little roadside stall for a cup of tea and a smoke. Our clothes dripped around us while we shielded our cigarettes from the rain. We shared our lunch with a friendly, half-starved dog and continued on up the mountain. The final stretch of road had been washed away by monsoon rain. The wheels on his scooter spun a fine arc of muddy gravel as he slipped and skidded his way to the top. Through it all, he smiled at me as I walked alongside chattering away about nihilistic existentialism, the inadequacy of windcheaters, and the question of evil. We stayed at a little bed-and-breakfast perched on the mountainside. Below us we saw a rainbow in the valley. I thought my heart would burst with impatience for the future. It rains now as it rained then, though there seems to be much more slush. Far as the past is, my heart still gladdens to that first sound of thunder after the long dry summer spell. I shall wear a sari and hold it up above my ankles as I jump through puddles. The rain brings hope, and petrichor.
Crab Orchard Review
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