Showers Of Gratitude by Leena Jayaraj

We like this story because:
We like a bit of unexpected weather,
along with the mysteries of love...

Mehta aunty’s roses were in full bloom. She couldn’t contain her excitement as she told
Tarun’s mother how big her roses had become. Mehta aunty was notorious for killing plants.
She would buy pot after healthy pot of plant from the nursery and try to coax them into
staying alive. But no matter what she did, no plant survived more than a month. But things
had changed after the unexpected shower of rain that had fallen three weeks ago. Two days
after the rain, she noticed buds on her rose plant. She hadn’t told anyone about them, scared
that she would jinx them. But then they had bloomed. Last night, it had rained again. Now the
air was fresh and crisp with the fragrance of roses and wet ground. Tarun waited for Mehta
aunty to pause to catch a breath and then said goodbye to his mother before leaving for work.

Tarun worked at the stationery store with his uncle. Though most of his friends had left for
the cities to go to college, his family didn’t see the need to waste money on further education
when it had already been decided that Tarun would go into business with his uncle. What
could college teach him about stationery that his uncle couldn’t? Tarun didn’t really mind not
going to college but he did miss his friends. Sitting around in a shop waiting for the occasional
customer was on the whole monotonous.

This afternoon, Tarun was manning the shop alone, his uncle having gone to take care of
some important errands. He was fiddling with the radio, trying to get a clearer reception—
they were playing the songs of Kishore Kumar, his favourite singer. When he looked up, he
saw Varsha standing there, waiting patiently. He blushed a deep red and jumped out of his
seat, stuttering as he tried to ask her what she wanted. Varsha always had this effect on him,
even though each time he met her, he told himself that next time he would handle himself
with more finesse. Varsha smiled at him and said she wanted a notebook. That’s what he liked
about her. She never laughed at him or showed that she noticed his awkwardness.

He took his time in handing her the notebook, waiting for his heart to settle into a regular
rhythm and trying to think of something to say. She was in her school uniform.
“How’s school?” he asked her.
“It’s hard,” she replied.
“You’re in the tenth standard, aren’t you?”
She nodded.
“State exams. I’m quite nervous.”
“I’m sure you’ll do well.”
Varsha smiled and left with her book. Tarun watched her till she had disappeared around the
bend.

Tarun remembered the day Varsha and her aunt had moved into town. The first of the
unseasonal showers had fallen that day. It had provided temporary respite from the heat. It
had also been the day that Mahesh uncle had finally settled a marriage alliance for his
daughter. The family had been looking for a groom for over three years now and were
beginning to despair.

Two Sundays after he had met Varsha at the shop, she and her aunt came to visit his mother.
Tarun usually made himself scarce when people came to meet his mother but today he
hovered around, helping her serve tea and snacks. “The tenth standard is such a crucial year,”
Varsha’s aunt was saying. “If she doesn’t get good marks, she won’t get admission into a good
college. She’s been scoring decently but maths is her weakness. I was thinking of sending her
to tuition classes but they are so expensive.”
“I can teach her,” Tarun blurted out, only to be met with surprised glances. Then his mother
said, “He’s right. He’s very good at maths. Always scored top marks in school.” Varsha’s aunt
hesitated. Tarun’s mother continued, “She can come in the evening. I’ll be here.” Varsha’s aunt
finally agreed, “Of course, we will pay you.” After some protests from both sides, they settled
on an amount of five hundred rupees a month. All this time, Tarun had not looked at Varsha
but now he stole a glance at her. She was looking at her hands that she had placed on her lap.
He thought he could see a smile flit along the edges of her mouth.

Varsha came at six o clock the next day as had been decided. They sat at the dining table in
the living room and Varsha opened her books. They were awkward and shy around each
other but the conversation was limited strictly to maths. Tarun’s mother usually started
cooking dinner at this time. But today, she decided that she would rather read the women’s
magazine that had arrived that day. She settled comfortably into an armchair that was on the
other side of the room. The magazine was interesting and kept her occupied till it was time
for Varsha to go home. But Tarun was not complaining. Just being able to be with her for an
hour everyday was enough to keep him awake at night, while he replayed over and over in
his head every gesture she had made and every word she had said.

Seema aunty, Mahesh uncle’s wife came over one evening to invite the family for their
daughter’s wedding that was being held the following Thursday. At the wedding, Tarun and
his parents, Varsha and her aunt, Mahesh uncle and Seema aunty were standing around,
talking to each other. Seema aunty put an arm around Varsha’s waist and gave her an
affectionate squeeze. “This girl is my lucky charm,” she said. “I remember going to their house
with some sweets on the day they arrived. I was helping them to unpack. And she says,
‘Aunty, you’re such a nice person. Good things will definitely happen.’ And the next day itself,
things worked out.” Seema aunty gave Varsha another squeeze and said, “God bless you
child.”

Later during that evening, Varsha came up to Tarun and whispered to him, “Let’s get out of
here.” They managed to slip away without anyone noticing. She took him through winding
lanes between houses and shops till they reached the open air of farmland. You could just
about see the paddy shoots above the flooded fields. The shoots caught the light of the moon
and looked like so many twinkling stars. “This is so beautiful,” Tarun said. Varsha nodded.
Then she took his hand in hers and they sat there, talking sometimes, staring silently at the
moon sometimes.

Once they had summoned up the courage to sneak away, they found a lot of opportunities to
do so. One day when they were out together, Varsha was telling Tarun about how Mr. Patel
had repaired their water pipe after it had burst that morning. “And he refused to take a single
paisa for it,” Varsha exclaimed. Just then, it started to drizzle. “It has been raining so
frequently this summer,” said Tarun. “In fact,” he pointed out, “it started when you came into
town.” Varsha laughed, “Don’t you like the rain?” “Of course I do. It’s just strange, that’s all,”
he replied.

The next day, Mr. Patel came over to Tarun’s place with sweets. “What’s the occasion?” his
mother asked him. “My son’s got admission into Harvard,” he said excitedly. “The acceptance
letter came yesterday. The postman was grumbling about the rain. But when I saw the letter, I
said that it was just the gods showering their blessings on me.” A nagging feeling grew inside
of Tarun as he listened to his mother and Mr. Patel talk but he couldn’t pinpoint the reason
for it.

That night, however, he remembered what Varsha had told him. She had said something
about Mr. Patel helping them. He then went over all the times it had rained these past two
months and realised each time, somebody had got lucky—somebody who had been kind to
Varsha. He pushed the thoughts out of his head. “I’m being ridiculous” he told himself. “It’s
just coincidence.” But the thoughts would not stay out and when he got up in the morning, he
couldn’t think of another explanation that fit.

That evening, they were sitting on the riverbank, watching the sun go down behind the
mountains. Finally, Tarun worked up the courage to ask her. “It’s you, isn’t it?” Varsha turned
to him with an enquiring look. “You’re the one who’s making it rain. You’re making all these
good things happen to people who are nice to you.” He waited for her denial but she only
laughed. Then she said, “So, you’ve figured it out.”
Tarun looked at her incredulously, “So it’s true?”
Varsha grinned mischievously at him.
“How?” he asked.
“I’ve been studying witchcraft ever since I was five. I learnt this particular spell a few months
ago.”
“You practise witchcraft?”
She nodded. “Does it bother you?”
He considered it and then said, “No, it doesn’t. But I thought witchcraft was something evil.”
“No,” Varsha explained, “you can do a lot of good with magic. But there is always a price to
pay.”
“What do you mean?”
She didn’t reply but merely turned her head away from Tarun and watched a heron flap its
wings lazily over the river. After a long time, she turned back to Tarun, her eyes incredibly
sad.
“What’s the matter?” he whispered.
“Every spell demands a price.”
“I don’t understand.”
Varsha pulled out a knife from her handbag.

That night, there was torrential rain, marking the arrival of the monsoon.

© Leena Jayaraj

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