The Rain (Part - I)

The afternoon of December 31st carried a peculiar melancholy. The morning had been crisp and clear, a false promise quickly betrayed by brooding dark clouds that gathered like mourners. Then, the rain began. In Mumbai, a city that rarely saw rain after August, this unexpected downpour felt like a tear shed by the year itself.

“Just a quick coffee break,” Chinmoy murmured, escaping the sterile confines of his cubicle. Pressing his hand against the cool glass of the window, he felt the chill of the raindrops, a sensation that transported him back to his childhood. He remembered his mother, her persistent hand forcing a raincoat into his schoolbag despite his protests. He’d preferred to dance in the downpour, each drop a tiny, joyful rebellion. Rain had been there the day he left home for higher studies, a constant companion in a world of unfamiliar faces and a daunting new environment. It had witnessed countless shared moments with friends, laughter echoing against the rhythmic drumming on rooftops. And, he thought with a pang, it had been there when she left, a silent witness to his quiet grief. Only the rain remained a constant.

“Hey.”

Sonal, his boss, stood behind him. “Still here? It’s New Year’s Eve! You should be out celebrating.”

“I’m leaving soon,” Chinmoy replied, his voice a little flat.

“Want a ride? It’s pouring.”

“Thanks, Sonal. You go ahead. I have some things to finish. Happy New Year.”

“Chill, dude. You need a break. Happy New Year!” Sonal smiled and left.

By 6 PM, the rain had eased, leaving behind a sky washed clean, tinged with the bruised hues of twilight. The office, already sparsely populated, emptied quickly. The air crackled with the anticipation of celebrations. Chinmoy watched them go, each figure disappearing into the promise of a new year. He had no such plans. “Home…rest,” he thought, a simple, quiet desire.

He stepped out into the office lawn. The rain had created small, shimmering pools on the grass. Instead of heading to the cab stand, he found himself drawn to one of these ephemeral lakes. The streetlights flickered, one in particular struggling to maintain its glow, a lonely beacon in the growing darkness. He sat beneath it, removed his shoes, and stepped onto the damp grass.

A wave of nostalgia washed over him. He remembered the paper boats of his childhood, meticulously crafted, each one adorned with vibrant colors and hopeful little messages. He longed to build one now, to launch it onto the miniature pond, a symbolic gesture of letting go and embracing the unknown.

He rummaged through his bag, a flicker of disappointment when he found no paper. Then, his eyes lit up. He pulled out two well-worn sheets: copies of her resume. They had been with him since last January, a lingering reminder of a chapter now closed. She was thriving, he knew, forging her own path. These pages were no longer needed.

With trembling hands, he began to fold. His origami skills were rusty, the folds clumsy, but a fragile boat slowly took shape. It wasn’t as perfect as the ones from his childhood, but it was enough. He gently placed it on the water’s surface.

“Who’s there? I’m asking, who’s there?” a voice boomed from the darkness. A shadow approached, followed by the sharp blast of a whistle. It was Bahadur, the security guard.

“Sir? Is everything alright? Did you drop something in the water? Oh, your shoes! Let me get them.”

“It’s okay, Bahadur,” Chinmoy reassured him. “I was just…taking a walk. My shoes are in my cabin. Thank you.”

Bahadur, still looking perplexed, retreated.

Chinmoy watched his paper boat drift further and further into the darkness, until it was swallowed by the shadows. He knew people would come and go, seasons would change, but the rain… the rain would always return. It was a promise, a constant in a world of uncertainties. And as he stood there in the quiet darkness, he felt a flicker of hope ignite within him. Perhaps, he thought, the rain wasn't just a reminder of the past, but also a promise of a new beginning, a cleansing before the dawn of a new year, a new chapter. He knew everyone would leave him, except this rain...