Ayesha Fernandes Part 1: The First Drop The rain came slow, like a lover hesitating at the doorstep. It began with a whisper against the rusted railing of the old apartment on Chapel Road, then picked up its rhythm like tabla fingers on taut skin. Amara stood by the half-open window, brush frozen mid-air, eyes half-lidded in thought. The canvas before her bore the beginning of a woman’s face, unfinished—like everything else in her life these days. She wasn’t supposed to paint today. She had promised herself a break. But the monsoon had this way of stirring her skin, cracking…
