Rohita in the rain

25 days separate my hand holding hers, now to take her home with me, calling her my own. That was the last thought as I drifted to sleep yesterday 2 hours earlier than my usual bedtime, hoping to strike off one more day on my mental calendar. She’s bought her sarees, my higher officials have been notified of my leave of absence, and our folks have all the preparations under way, but all I am really looking forward to is her frail arm on my crisp uniform, cradling the collar, looking right through me, making her sweltering city my home for a while. I am woken up to the sound of the sky rumbling, announcing the first feeble shower of the season, rhythmically making the glass on the slightly broken window pane hush against the grill. The whistle on amma’s pressure cooker would be going off just about now, giving her a last couple of minutes to note down her to-do list. Dad would be shuffling in the hall, using one finger to type down messages on whatsapp. She should be inching away from her work station, looking at the rain, tapping the rear end of the pen on the notebook on her lap, slowly reducing in frequency even as she closes it, pulls up her feet, wraps them around her arms, resting her chin between her knees and humming quietly to herself. She probably doesn’t know yet, but her next design idea is softly falling on those window ledges, caressing the wall below as it drips by, drawing a pattern induced by its path and a lone streak of summer’s light that the city almost refuses to let go of through the year. In my head, she’s up on the terrace, laughing her tiny laugh as she tells a friend about me, walking cautiously from the center of one wet tile to another, holding a cloud wrapped around her, her finger holding its creases, the lone band I gave her, wrapped around the finger. In my head, we sway, breathing in harmony, as though in anticipation of a gradual crescendo in the silence only we find a tempo in, one tile to another, wall, window ledge, parapet, protruding mango tree branch, flower pots, her frizzy hair, water drops along the cable lines, my pounding heart. Even without looking at the clock, I know I have a couple of more minutes before my routine calls, and I catch myself rolling my feet further under the blanket, holding on to her face in my head, almost as if willing her to take break, if only for a few minutes, to just let the work be, go to the balcony at least, and think of me maybe. I open my eyes, smiling to myself, and look at the watch. 24 days to go. - Makeup by Anitha Sridhar. You can find her work here: https://www.instagram.com/anithasridharmakeup/ You can check Rohita's hand-crafted jewellery at https://www.roiajewelry.com/ ** You might enjoy looking at the pictures while listening to this number. Hit play. :)