And Then it Rained

Simran Malhotra


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The room was gradually shrinking, spinning, turning.

I lay in a position of surrender on the settee,

I wanted a summer vacation.


One. Two. Three. Four–four flies.

The window was open,

Curtains hung loosely and limp.

Grandma sitting still.

Calm. Cross-legged. Chanting quietly,

prayer beads in hand.


“Don’t open the fridge too often, the food will get spoilt.”

She would say,

“You never know when the electricity will get cut off.”


She would give cold sherbet.

To the servant, driver, postman, vegetable seller and

all the victims of the Indian summer heat.


A sudden cool breeze

slapped me out of my misery.

I heard a roar.


My grandma smiled.

I ran outside–just in time for the first droplet to hit my cheek.


And then I danced in the mud.