Skip to main content

A Season of Love and Loss

 




The rain had always been a witness to our love, a tender embrace from the heavens that nurtured our connection. Our small village nestled on the banks of the Periyar. The air crackled with anticipation as the first drops fell, and it was amidst this refreshing downpour that our love blossomed.

I was a simple boy from the fisherman community, and she, a girl from a wealthy family, lived just a stone's throw away. Our worlds were vastly different, separated by social status and expectations. But the rain, oh how it erased those barriers. It brought us together, drenched in its enchanting allure.

We longed to be with each other, to share our dreams and fears, but our families forbade our love. So, we devised a way to communicate, to steal moments of togetherness amidst the chaos. We wrote letters, pouring our hearts onto paper, and carefully wrapped them in plastic to protect them from the rain's touch. Each letter became a paper boat, carrying our desires and whispered promises.

We would silently release our paper boats into the currents of the rain water in front of our houses. We watched as they floated away, symbols of our love defying the constraints imposed upon us. And we hoped that somewhere she would receive my words, and I would receive hers.

Those stolen moments became the highlight of my existence. I would anxiously wait for her replies, for the assurance that our love was strong and unwavering. And amidst the roaring rain, we found solace in each other's words, in the knowledge that our hearts beat as one.

But fate, merciless as it is, had other plans for us. One fateful night, as the rain poured relentlessly, disaster struck. The dam shutter, unable to withstand the force of the raging water, gave way to the overwhelming deluge. The tranquil Periyar turned into a monstrous beast, swallowing everything in its path.

I awoke to the cries of panic and fear, the swirling waters tearing through the village. The girl and her family, like so many others, were swept away by the merciless flood. Their lives, their hopes, their dreams—all washed away in an instant. The rain that had once brought us together now became a relentless downpour of sorrow, echoing my grief.

I rushed to where her house had stood, my heart pounding in my chest. But there was nothing left, only a void of destruction and loss. I fell to my knees, tears mingling with the raindrops, my cries swallowed by the tempest. The weight of the tragedy pressed upon me, threatening to drown me in sorrow.

And in that moment, as the rain battered the earth and my heart, it felt as if nature itself wept with me. It was as if the skies mourned our shattered love, joining me in my anguish. The freshness of the monsoon had transformed into a poignant reminder of what was lost, a reminder that even the purest love could be swept away by the merciless currents of life.

And so, I wept, my tears mingling with the rain, each droplet a testament to the tragic love that was never meant to be. The story of two hearts, forever bound by the rain, forever separated by cruel fate. And as the storm raged on, I whispered my love into the howling wind, hoping that somewhere, somehow, she could hear me.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Woman Without D

The sun rays fought their way through the gap in the curtains, slicing across my eyes like a physical blow. My alarm screamed—a digital screech that seemed to vibrate inside my teeth. I swiped it off, the silence rushing back in, but the relief didn't follow. I lay there, staring at the ceiling fan cutting through the stagnant air. Which day is this? I wondered. It felt like the same day I had lived for the past six months. A gray, heavy loop. "Get up, Sruthi," I whispered to the empty room. "Just get up." I am Sruthi. On paper, I am a twenty-eight-year-old Senior Analyst at a top-tier firm. I am supposed to be in the prime of my life—ambitious, vibrant, climbing the ladder. But as I peeled the duvet off my body, I didn't feel twenty-eight. I felt ancient. I had slept eight hours. I had gone to bed at 10:00 PM like a disciplined child. Yet, as I swung my legs over the side of the bed, gravity felt twice as strong as it should be. There was no "ready to ...

The Brilliant Criminal We Chose Not to See

I came across a line recently — just a casual post online — and I haven't been able to shake it since. It said: "Georgekutty has become an underrated character just because he is played by Sri Mohanlal." I read it. Scrolled past. Came back. Read it again. And then I sat with it for a long time, because I think it is one of the great observations anyone has made about the Drishyam franchise. Here I am, still thinking about it. We have spent over a decade watching this man — this cable TV operator from a small village, fourth-grade dropout, devoted husband, fiercely loving father — and we have cheered for him. Every. Single. Time. We rooted for him in 2013. We stood up for him in 2021. And now, in 2026, with Drishyam 3 fresh in our hearts, we are doing it all over again. But here is the question I want to sit with today: Who exactly are we cheering for? Let me describe Georgekutty to you — not as the hero the story frames him as, but as who he actually is. He is a man with...

To the One Who Taught Me to Unlearn

I come from a middle-class family in Kerala. My skin is brown — brown enough to not fit the beauty standards this society has so rigidly defined. As I stand in front of the mirror, I see curves that are "too much," hair that is "too frizzy," skin that is "too dark." I have been conditioned to believe that this body — my body — is not enough. The voices around me were never kind. Relatives, neighbors, even parents, in their ignorance, made remarks that stuck to my skin like scars. “You’re too dark,” they would say. “You’re fat, your back isn’t straight, your body isn’t right.” They’d tell me not to wear white — it doesn’t “suit” me. They’d mock me for applying kajal, saying it blends into my skin tone. Red lipstick? Unthinkable. All too bold for a girl with this skin. Strangers stared. The media reinforced it. And slowly, I thought it was normal — all of it. Somehow, I grew immune to these comments. Maybe I’d just heard them so often that my ears stop...