Ashutosh Roy
Chapter 1: The Book and the Bench
It had just rained in Delhi. Not the torrential kind that makes the streets flood and autos stall in mid-traffic tantrums. This was the soft drizzle that left the air smelling like soaked earth and wild chameli. The Yamuna River, still and quiet, flowed beside the narrow walkway behind the old college canteen—forgotten by most, except for those who loved the quiet.
Ayaan didn’t particularly love the quiet. But he had begun showing up here on Sundays, almost ritualistically, like someone trying to form a habit out of peace. He was a postgraduate in political science with a habit of fidgeting during silence and a nervous laugh that echoed a beat too long. That Sunday, he sat on the damp wooden bench beneath the gulmohar tree, the leaves still dripping like the clock hadn’t stopped ticking since the rain.
That’s when he saw her.
She was seated a little away, on the low stone wall that edged the river. A girl in a yellow kurta, hunched over a book. Not reading. Just… holding it open, her thumb tracing the underlined words, lost somewhere between the lines and the river. A strand of her wet hair clung to her cheek.
He noticed the book—Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda.
The poet of tangled hearts. Dangerous territory.
She looked up suddenly, catching him mid-gaze. Ayaan, startled, stood up too quickly. His umbrella toppled. The flap of his bag opened and a few notes spilled. He cursed under his breath and knelt to pick them up. That’s when the rain chose to return—short, sharp, and uncaring.
She laughed.
It was soft, almost shy, but real. Then she stood up, walked toward him, and without a word, held out her umbrella to cover both their heads. Ayaan blinked.
“Thanks,” he said.
She looked at him, not smiling anymore. “You dropped this,” she said, handing him his soaked notebook. Her fingers brushed his. Then she noticed something. “You’ve underlined the same line I did.”
Ayaan glanced at the page she referred to.
“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”
He smiled, half embarrassed, half curious. “It’s the best one.”
“No,” she replied, tucking her wet hair behind her ear. “It’s the most dangerous one.”
There was a pause. Then she turned. “See you around,” she said and started walking away.
“Wait—what’s your name?” he called after her.
She glanced back over her shoulder.
“Mira.”
And just like that, she disappeared beyond the trees, her yellow kurta like a sunbeam retreating from the edge of a cloud.
Ayaan stood there for another minute, his notebook still dripping in his hand, the echo of her voice mixing with the patter of rain and the faint murmur of the Yamuna.
The next Sunday, he returned to the same bench.
This time with a dry copy of Twenty Love Poems and a Post-it stuck on the first page.
“Every idiot deserves a second chance.”
— A
He didn’t know if she would come. But he left the book there anyway, tucked beneath the bench plank, just in case the river wasn’t done whispering secrets yet.
Chapter 2: Yellow Umbrellas and Silent Promises
It didn’t rain the next Sunday.
The sky was smeared with the washed-out blue of worn denim, the kind that promised sunshine but whispered of clouds forming somewhere out of sight. Ayaan arrived early. Too early. The chaiwala near the college canteen hadn’t even set up his kettle yet. But the bench under the gulmohar was waiting—empty, expectant, as if it too remembered the yellow splash of Mira’s kurta.
He sat down, the book gone damp in his bag from the dew, and tried to pretend he wasn’t looking around every few seconds.
And then—soft footsteps. Not hurried, not hesitant. Just there.
Mira walked into view, her hair loose today, her expression unreadable. She noticed the Post-it sticking out of the book in his lap.
“You think you’re funny?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
Ayaan shrugged. “Mildly.”
She took the book without asking, opened it to the first poem, read the note again, and then looked up at him.
“I didn’t peg you as a Neruda type,” she said.
“I didn’t peg myself as the type who’d wait on a bench either,” he replied, smiling.
She didn’t smile back. Not yet. Instead, she sat beside him.
Not too close. Not far either.
There was something strange in the air—like the space between them wasn’t filled with awkwardness, but with something softer. Quieter.
“Why are you here?” she asked after a long pause.
“I don’t know,” Ayaan said honestly. “Maybe because you left before I could ask what your favorite line was.”
She tilted her head. “That’s a terrible reason.”
“But it worked,” he said, turning to her. “You’re here.”
Mira looked down at the river. “Only for a while.”
Something about that line felt heavy. Final. But Ayaan let it hang. He wasn’t here to solve riddles. He just wanted this Sunday.
“Do you want chai?” he asked.
She nodded.
He got up, jogged to the now-open tea stall, and returned with two earthen cups. The chai was hot, too sweet, and slightly burnt at the bottom—just the way it always was near campus. Mira took a sip, held the cup in both hands, and said, “You know, this is where I come when things get too loud.”
“Me too,” Ayaan said, though he wasn’t sure if it was true.
Mira turned to him, her voice barely above the rustle of leaves, “Do you believe people meet for a reason?”
Ayaan considered that. “Maybe. But sometimes I think we meet people for a moment. And that’s enough.”
She stared at him for a while. “You really talk like a poet.”
“I’m a disaster at poetry,” he admitted.
“Good,” she said. “I don’t trust perfect poets.”
And then—for the first time—she smiled. Not a smirk, not polite. A real smile that made her eyes crinkle at the edges.
Ayaan smiled back, heart racing and calm all at once.
That Sunday, they didn’t talk about Neruda. They talked about everything else—of books half-read and chai cups half-drunk, of Delhi rains, the smell of paranthas from Lajpat Nagar, and memories of school mornings when umbrellas were more important than homework.
The sun lowered itself into the river slowly. Birds flew low. The bench became a boat.
When Mira stood up to leave, Ayaan asked, “Will you come next Sunday?”
She paused, then nodded.
“Bring your umbrella,” he added. “Just in case.”
Mira held up her cup and said, “Only if you bring poetry that isn’t dangerous.”
He grinned. “I’ll try.”
As she walked away again, Ayaan felt a small part of him stay with her—and a small part of her remain behind, on the bench between two clay cups and unfinished sentences.
Chapter 3: When the Sky Forgot to Rain
The following Sunday arrived like a question. The air was warmer, the breeze lazier, and the clouds that usually flirted with Delhi’s skyline had taken a break. It felt unnatural somehow—this absence of rain. The kind of absence you don’t notice until you’ve grown fond of its presence.
Ayaan arrived with a tote bag instead of his backpack. Inside was a poetry collection by Rabindranath Tagore—Stray Birds—small, almost fragile verses. He had circled a few lines that reminded him of her, though he hadn’t yet found the courage to tell her that.
Mira was already waiting when he reached.
She stood leaning against the gulmohar tree, looking at the river with her arms folded, as if it had told her something it refused to repeat.
“You’re early,” he said.
“You’re late,” she replied, though it wasn’t true.
He sat beside her on the bench and offered the book. She took it silently and flipped through the pages. Her finger stopped on one:
“The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough.”
She smiled. “Better than Neruda.”
Ayaan grinned. “Less dangerous, too.”
They sat in silence for a while, watching the river. It wasn’t full, but it moved like it remembered being full once. Mira dangled her fingers over the side of the bench, brushing a fallen petal with her toe.
“I had a fight with my mother this week,” she said suddenly.
He looked at her.
“She thinks I’m wasting time,” Mira continued. “That I should be applying abroad. Planning the next five years. Not sitting by a river with someone I barely know.”
Ayaan didn’t respond immediately. Then he asked gently, “And what do you think?”
“I think,” she said slowly, “I’m tired of planning things I don’t want.”
The wind shifted, and the scent of soaked soil from somewhere lingered, even though the sky was dry.
“Maybe you don’t have to plan yet,” he offered. “Maybe you just need to listen to what your heart doesn’t hate.”
She laughed. “You really are bad at poetry.”
He laughed too. “Told you.”
Mira handed the book back, her fingers brushing his again, this time not by accident.
“You know what’s strange?” she asked.
“What?”
“I don’t know what you’re doing here either. You don’t talk much about your life. Or your people.”
Ayaan shrugged. “Maybe I don’t want this to become real enough to break.”
She stared at him, unblinking. “That’s a sad thing to say.”
“It’s an honest one.”
For a moment, the silence between them grew louder than the river. Then Mira stood up and walked to the edge, where the stone wall met the grass. She crouched and drew a heart in the dust with her finger. It faded the moment she finished.
“I don’t believe in forever,” she said, her back still to him.
“Me neither,” he replied.
“But I believe in Sundays.”
She turned. “Same time next week?”
Ayaan nodded. “Same bench.”
“Maybe rain,” she said, looking up at the dry sky, “maybe not.”
And she walked off, the empty sky above her like a page waiting to be written on.
Ayaan stayed back longer that day. He watched the river, the fading sun, and the half-erased heart in the dust.
Not everything needed rain to grow.
Some things bloomed simply because someone stayed.
Chapter 4: The Day It Finally Poured
The sky didn’t wait this time.
It poured without warning, without thunder, without lightning. Just a sudden curtain of water falling over Delhi like the monsoon had remembered it had something left to say. Ayaan was already drenched by the time he made it to the bench, shoes squeaking, hair clinging to his forehead. But he smiled anyway—because he knew she’d come.
She always did.
And there she was.
Running under her yellow umbrella, that familiar splash of sunlight in the storm, her laughter cutting through the rain like wind through chimes. She reached him, breathless, water dripping from her sleeves.
“I brought your umbrella,” she said, holding out the yellow one.
He took it but didn’t open it.
“I like this rain,” he said, “it doesn’t ask for permission.”
They stood there under the gulmohar tree, water dripping from the branches, the river blurring in the distance like a watercolor left out in the storm.
“You didn’t bring a book today?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. “Just brought something to ask.”
Mira blinked, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “What?”
He pulled something from his pocket—a scrap of notebook paper, folded carefully, slightly wrinkled from the damp. She took it, eyes scanning the ink that had begun to bleed slightly.
If we’re both just passing through,
can we walk a little slower—together?
Mira read it once. Twice. Then looked at him, searching for the edge of a joke.
But he was serious.
“Ayaan,” she said softly, “what do you want this to be?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Something honest. Something gentle. Not forever. Just… something real.”
She bit her lip. The rain kept falling. The city around them disappeared behind a veil of grey.
Then she did something he didn’t expect.
She stepped forward and kissed him. Just once. Just briefly. A kiss like a comma in a long sentence—enough to change everything without ending anything.
When she pulled away, she whispered, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, we walk slower.”
Ayaan’s heart thudded so loudly he was sure she could hear it.
They sat on the bench with their shoulders touching, the yellow umbrella covering half of them, the other half soaking in the moment. The river was fuller now, rushing gently, as if applauding them without sound.
“I might leave,” she said quietly, “in a few months.”
“I know.”
“But I’ll stay until then.”
He nodded. “I’ll wait until then.”
“And after?”
“We’ll see.”
They sat in the rain long after the chaiwala left, long after the crows found shelter, long after the world turned away to worry about other things.
Because sometimes, when it rains, the river doesn’t just rise.
Hearts do too.
Chapter 5: A Letter Under the Bench
The next Sunday came with a chill.
The rain had stopped, but its memory lingered—puddles on pathways, the musty perfume of soaked bark, and that familiar dampness that wrapped Delhi in a tired grey shawl. The Yamuna moved slowly now, heavier, darker, as if carrying secrets it could no longer hold back.
Ayaan reached early, as usual.
He sat down, ran his fingers over the wooden bench, and smiled. The umbrella was still folded in his bag, dry for once. He pulled out his notebook, the corner still curled from last week’s rain, and began scribbling. He wrote about the way Mira tilted her head when she laughed, how she blinked slower when she was about to say something serious, and how sometimes she stared at the river like it owed her an answer.
But Mira didn’t come.
By five-thirty, he had checked the pathway three times.
By six, the wind began to rise. Ayaan waited till the shadows grew longer and the gulmohar leaves stopped dripping. Still no Mira.
He stayed till seven.
And then—just as he was about to leave—he noticed it. Tucked beneath the bench plank, wrapped in red thread, a folded letter. His name was written on the outside in her precise, almost calligraphic handwriting.
Ayaan.
His fingers trembled as he opened it.
I didn’t plan to disappear like this. I wanted one last Sunday. But life sometimes chooses for us. The call came late Friday night. My fellowship in Prague—it’s earlier than expected. I leave tonight.
Don’t be angry. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want goodbye to feel like goodbye. I wanted it to be a memory, not a wound.
You were never part of my plan, Ayaan. That’s why you became so important.
I will think of you when the rain comes to strange cities. When I find a bench near a river, I’ll imagine you sitting beside me, talking about poetry you’ll never write.
You made this messy little chapter beautiful. That’s more than most people ever get.
Love,
Mira
Ayaan didn’t cry.
He just folded the letter carefully, placed it back under the bench, and sat still for a long time.
The river whispered its usual songs, and the breeze pushed at his sleeves. But it all sounded distant. Too soft. Too kind.
He didn’t blame her.
Not really.
They had always known this was temporary. But temporary doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It just means you don’t get to complain when it ends.
As he stood up, he looked down at the old gulmohar tree one last time, its roots soaked deep in the earth, its branches reaching for things it could never touch.
He walked away slowly, umbrella unopened, each step heavy with the weight of something almost-love.
And the bench waited—quiet, loyal—
as if it too understood the ache of being left behind.
Raindrops by the River
By Ashutosh Roy
Chapter 6: What the River Remembered
Seasons shifted quietly in Delhi.
By late November, the air had turned crisp, and the trees along the Yamuna wore tired shades of brown and gold. The rain had stopped coming weeks ago, and even the river seemed slower—like it too had learned to let go.
Ayaan hadn’t returned to the bench for a long time.
He had tried. Once. Maybe twice. But the sight of that wooden seat under the gulmohar, the silence beside him, the absence carved in the shape of a girl with Neruda and yellow umbrellas—it was too much. So he buried himself in college work, coffee, old music playlists, and all the distractions Delhi offered.
But absence, like gravity, always pulls you back.
And one Saturday afternoon, just as winter touched the corners of his sleeves, he found himself walking the path again. Without intention. Without even meaning to. Just following something quieter than memory.
The bench was still there.
A little worn, a little older. A few initials scratched in the wood by couples who had likely made promises too big for their age.
Ayaan sat down.
The gulmohar above had shed most of its leaves. The river beside him shimmered in fading light. He rested his hands on the wood, his fingers brushing the underside of the plank.
And paused.
It was still there.
The letter.
Slightly frayed at the edges, but intact. Mira’s handwriting, faded but familiar. He didn’t read it again. He didn’t need to.
Instead, he pulled out his own notebook. It had grown heavier with days. Filled with things he had never sent, things he didn’t think he’d write. And now, he began scribbling one final note.
Dear Mira,
I met someone last week. She reads Rumi, doesn’t like chai, and thinks rain is overrated. We didn’t click. But she reminded me that I’m still here. Still capable of looking across a table and wondering ‘what if.’
You were never a closed door. Just a beautiful window I passed on the way.
I hope Prague rains sometimes. I hope you find benches near rivers. I hope someone smiles at you the way I did—quietly, and without expectation.
Thank you for not staying.
Thank you for arriving when you did.
He folded the page, tucked it under the plank beside hers, and smiled.
Some stories don’t need endings. They just need a place to return to.
As Ayaan stood and began walking back, the sun dipped lower, casting gold across the river’s skin. A breeze swept past, carrying the scent of old rain, dry leaves, and something sweeter—like peace.
And behind him, the bench remained.
Not waiting.
Just remembering.
End of Story
