The Sky Under


by Kulpreet Yadav

 

I am not angry because she has chosen not to come. I am sad, broken. I recall what she used to say: ‘Let it rain. Let the monsoons come and the land flood and I will still be there in a snap.’ She lied, but why?

Yet, knowing this is the tenth monsoon since she has gone, I wait for her. My umbrella is outside, ready as soon as she calls. My mother reminds me, perhaps for the hundredth time that it doesn’t rain in heaven. But I know it does, or she would have come, for sure.

She always loved rains. I remember once we had had a fight. It wasn’t her mistake; but I was stubborn. Maybe I was too young; and maybe I was a man. She would call me man, then wink and laugh. I felt powerful, a man, yet weak. She was, in fact, my power. So that evening, when I stayed away from her, sitting in the balcony, my whiskey glass in my hand, she didn’t complain. Then it rained and she came, saying sorry for a mistake that was mine. Then I also said so.

But it is surprising; it doesn’t rain much these days. See today, it is her birthday and it is absent. My mother is again angry. I see her in front of me; she has tears in her eyes. But mine are dry. I want to hold them – all my tears – and I want to pour them, with the rain, over her when she comes. I know she will come. I am sure.

 

Back to Archive


Writers Bio

Kulpreet Yadav is an Indian novelist and a short story writer currently based at Port Blair, India.


Inspirational ImageAfter The Rain by Gracey  Stinsonby Gracey Stinson

Pieces Inspired by this Image

'Wild Ativan'
by Jaedyn Rosenthal

'The Lady of our Lake'
by Elizabeth Glenn-Copeland

'Sunset In A River Town'
by John Grey


Follow Us


© Copyright 2012 With Painted Words