Dinner Under The Downpour
Nimisha Ajaikumar
©
Copyright 2025 by Nimisha Ajaikumar
|
Photo courtesy of
Wikimedia Commons. |
“The
stupid
tiffin guy has cancelled our dinner,” my roommate barked,
slamming the door of our shared bedroom in Pune.
I
massaged my
temples. “How will we fend for ourselves?”
She
smiled
knowingly, the corners of her mouth curling. “There’s a
family restaurant near the main road. We’ll go there at 8:30 PM
sharp.”
I
nodded and plugged
in my headphones, letting Thunderstruck by AC/DC
pour into my
ears like prophecy.
An
hour later, the
sky split open with a growl and rain gushed down.
“It
was just
sunny five minutes ago,” I groaned. My friends say I am a
vampire, considering how much I loathe the sun — but
even I had not wished for lightning to sever our power. My roommate
screamed in the dark, chanting like a spooked priestess.
Grey
clouds now
draped the heavens, smothering every sliver of light. I rushed to
rescue my half-dried clothes from the balcony. Then I lingered,
letting the rain kiss my skin. Branches flailed in the wind, and
leaves danced to my feet. Unlike my trembling roommate, the lightning
didn’t scare me. One look, and I felt electric.
“MWAHAHAHAHA,”
I cackled, arms outstretched, borrowing the sky’s power for
myself.
Back
inside, my
roommate had lit her phone’s in-built flashlight. “This
weather is actually quite romantic,” she hummed, now that the
thunder had retreated (because, obviously, I had claimed the storm).
“Too
bad
you’re stuck with me,” I teased. Calling her boyfriend in
this storm would have been a shortcut to a fried brain and a dead
phone.
“How
will we
go to dinner?” I grumbled. “We’ll have to swim all
the way there.”
Always
the
problem-solver, she suggested, “Let me check a food delivery
app.” She scrolled dejectedly and exhaled deeply. “Nobody
wants to drive to our area. We’re doomed to starve.”
“Wait
a sec,”
I said, diving toward my cupboard. “Nope. No instant noodle
stash either.”
She
stood up
solemnly. “Get ready. We have to go to the restaurant I
suggested.”
We
slipped on our
flip-flops and huddled under a single umbrella. Outside, the road
shimmered with silver rivulets, moonlight reflected in puddle
mirrors. “I should’ve brought a paper boat,” I
chuckled.
“Are
you girls
going to play outside?” our security guard asked.
“No,
we’re
hungry,” we giggled. His face twisted in horror.
My
roommate wrapped
one arm around my shoulder and held my pink umbrella with her free
hand. My teeth clattered like dice in a tin, hands buried deep in my
pockets. We walked in sync, dodging water from above and below. I
pulled my hoodie tighter, a shield against sickness.
“Just
a few
more yards,” she promised, giving my shoulder a squeeze. We
were the only fools out on this street under the monsoon’s
madness. Shops stood shuttered, their windows dark as closed eyes. I
clung to her when the thunder returned, worried the trees would throw
down lightning bolts.
Then
we got the
shock of our lives, stronger than any bolt of lightning.
A
flood had claimed
the road ahead, swallowing the entrance to our coveted restaurant. My
dreams of chowing down some vada pav evaporated like mirages in a
storm. This was the kind of weather made for street food, not swamp
navigation.
“There
are
some bricks we can hop across — like a game of
soggy hopscotch,” she said, pointing ahead.
“But
we still
have to wade through the water to get there,” I muttered, nose
wrinkling at the thought.
She
took my hand to
lead me forward. Then — SPLASH — a
frog leapt in front of us. She shrieked and let go.
“Oh
heck no,”
she gagged. I might have found it cute… until its family
followed.
“If
there are
frogs,” I mused aloud, “won’t there be snakes too?”
“Never
mind.
Let’s eat from that street food stall,” she declared,
turning me around with her. “It’s the only one still
open.”
We
were in no
position to debate hygiene. Hunger had made us humble. We watched the
vendor — an old man in a threadbare sweater — warm
curry with bare hands and serve us buns that steamed like sighs.
“Enjoy
your
pav bhaji, kids,” he grinned toothlessly.
While
my starving
roommate devoured the food in seconds, I wrestled with the spice. It
was delicious — but the chili powder scorched like
betrayal.
“Water,”
I cried, tongue out, praying the rain would save me.
When
we returned,
our building was still trapped in darkness.
“Your
hoodies
are soaked,” the security guard scolded.
“That’s
the point,” I replied lazily.
My
roommate burst
out laughing. I joined in, realizing how absurd I sounded. The guard
just stood there, too stunned to speak.
“My
battery’s
dying,” my roommate sobbed (or maybe they were raindrops
dotting her face) as she fumbled for her keys. My torch revealed mud
smudged across the back of my pants, a souvenir from the sky.
We
changed into warm
pajamas and sank into our beds. My blanket welcomed me like an old
friend. I slept so deeply, so sweetly, I woke up the next day an hour
late.
Indian
monsoons are
magic.
Nimisha Ajaikumar
is a counselling psychologist from India who has been writing a
mental health blog called Silence the Stigma for the past five years,
exploring topics at the intersection of existentialism and feminism.
Her blog is driven by what triggers her to write each day. Recently,
she has ventured into fiction and poetry on Medium and aspires to
publish a novel one day.
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