Living in Mawsynram was tough, even if you loved rain, thought Aradhya, picking up her scarf which had fallen into the muddy water as she ran toward her office. Nothing was ever dry here, neither the streets, nor the lives of the people, and definitely not the board with the writing “The Wettest Place on Earth” where travellers crowded to click pictures.

She had lived here all her life, and like everyone else, she had learned to make peace with the rain. “There is always rain here, but never flood,” her father used to say, unlike the cities, where it flooded after just a little rain. Her father hated big cities. He believed people from big cities thought the world revolved around them—an opinion Aradhya had not inherited. She knew that this was what people from smaller villages said about Mawsynram, and the same was true for what people in big cities said about even bigger cities.

The rain grew stronger and more intense, and Aradhya cursed herself for not bringing an umbrella. She had thought the sky looked clear today and believed it would not rain, forgetting that this was the “Rain of Mawsynram” she was talking about.

Her eyes drifted toward the banyan tree where she had played as a child. But she wasn’t looking at the tree itself, she was looking at the umbrella tied on it with a rope. She moved closer and read the words written in oil paint: “Take them if you need. Just leave them here after the rain stops.”

She picked up an umbrella and smiled. But a single question kept playing in her head was who could it be who had left umbrellas there? The mystery gnawed at her. It was not raining when she left her office, so she returned the umbrella to its original place and began walking towards her home before turning back.

She observed them carefully: some umbrellas were tall, some short; some red, some blue, some green. She searched for some initials or a signature on the note but found none. There was nothing to indicate the person’s identity but Aradhya was not the type to leave mysteries unsolved.

She examined every inch—the umbrellas, the metal ropes, the metal box with the oil-painted message. “The oil paint,” it struck her. She had an idea. The village was too small to have more than one stationery shop.

Ramu Kaka, the eighty-year-old, was sitting there being the other constant of Mawsynram, besides the rain. “Mawsynram is too small a village for more than one person to have bought oil paints from Ramu Kaka,” she thought.

“It was Varun who came the other day,” he said scratching his head. “The one who lives next to the Vegetable market.” The old man nodded. “He also bought a rope and a metal box.”

“Thank you, Kaka,” she said, practically jumping with excitement.

“Come over have some tea, child.” But she was too excited to wait, drink, savour and praise the tea.

The next morning, Aradhya walked to the office, her mind full of thoughts about Varun Sehgal. He worked in the other team, and his office was on the floor below hers. She sat at her desk, waiting for the right moment to talk to him, but the hands of the clock ticked by, and she realized she was nervous.

Finally, summoning her courage, she climbed down and knocked on the door labelled “Varun Sehgal, HR Manager.”

Varun opened the door. Aradhya noticed his pitch black hair, steady posture, and sharp eyes.

“Thank you for the umbrella,” she said.

“What?” he asked, pretending not to know.

“You heard me,” she smiled.

“What umbrellas are you talking about?” he said, trying to hide his knowledge, but his eyes betrayed him.

“Don’t pretend. I just wanted to say thank you,” she said.

Varun smiled. “How did you find out?”

“I’m smart,” she replied playfully. Then she explained how she had gone to Ramu Kaka’s shop, asked about the oil paints, and discovered the rest.

“Want to have a cup of tea? Office time is over,” he said, checking his watch. The third constant in Mawsynram is tea.

“Yeah, sure,” she replied.

They walked to the tea stall nearby. As they sipped their tea, Aradhya asked, “So… why don’t you want people to know it was you?”

“I felt it instinctively,” he said.

They chatted, laughed, and shared playful moments.

Aradhya asked, “Did you want anyone to find out?”

“Well… yes. Everyone wants some credit,” Varun admitted.

“Then why not just mention your initials?” she asked.

“Because I didn’t want to admit even to myself that I’m a credit-seeker,” he said.

“You’re like a mirror,” he said. “You show people their reflection.”

“And you are like an umbrella, you protect them from the rain,” she said smiling.

He blushed and laughed.

Over time, Aradhya realized she liked Varun deeply. They shared stories, secrets, and even little confessions about their childhoods. Varun told her he had always hated Mawsynram and dreamed of moving to a bigger city, while Aradhya admitted she still liked cartoons she watched as a child.

She wanted to confess her feelings. One day, after tea, she asked, “Why is true love theoretical?”

“I don’t know. True love exists, if you look around, it’s everywhere, in our hearts,” Varun said.

“I wanted to make sure you believed in it before I confessed my feelings,” she said. “Varun, I love you,” she whispered.

A long pause followed.

“I’m sorry, Aradhya. I should have told you earlier, but I’m married,” he said, walking away without another word.

Aradhya’s heart shattered. As every drop reminded him of Varun. That was when she called me. She was my cousin and we had often confided in each other. She told me about everything she had experienced, and even about her new hatred for rain and asked for some advice.

“Try going out in rain.”

“No, I hate rain.” Aradhya protested.

The next morning, it rained again. Aradhya, lost in thought, stepped outside and realized the rain wasn’t as harsh as she had imagined. It reminded her of Varun, but she understood she could live with the pain and move on.

Happy endings weren’t always about marriage, they could also be about letting go, healing, and moving forward.

The rain intensified. Aradhya being herself forgot her umbrella again, her gaze drifted towards the Banyan tree. The umbrellas still hung there, with the same metal box and the same words in oil paint. She hesitated, then picked up one.

By the evening on her way back to home, she had her own oil paints and she wrote: “Thank you, Varun.” as the umbrellas became the new constant.

She walked back to her office, smiling quietly to herself, ready to face the rain and life on her own terms.

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