under the wraps

Between Rain and Memory

"And the sun will rise for sure after this constant rain,
and this commotion will turn into a sweet jingle."

Today, it was raining—not heavily, just a steady drizzle. I didn't feel like going home. Maybe it was the confusion swirling inside my head. I wanted to breathe deeply, to clear the unnecessary noise and process what truly mattered.

So I went to my peaceful place—Grandma's house.

I hadn't been there for ages, because every time I stepped inside, the place reminded me of her. Still, despite the ache, it felt like home. My flat, on the other hand, was just a structure of bricks and stone.

As soon as I entered, a familiar scent floated in the air—roses from Badi Maa's plant in the small front garden. They weren't in very good condition anymore.

I removed my shoes, switched on the lights, and began roaming barefoot through the house, touching everything—trying to reconnect with what I once had here. Everything was covered in dust now. The empty space on the wall caught my eye, where a photograph of me and Badi Maa once hung. It was now at my place.

I opened Badi Maa's room.

Her old bed.
The curtains we had stitched together.
The dreamcatcher by the window, still making soft sounds whenever the air passed through it.

I opened her armoire. A few of her clothes were still there, bringing a sudden wave of melancholy. Small boxes contained old keys and the minimal jewellery she used to wear. Her wooden comb. The jasmine oil she loved—it was still there.

My old drawing files and diaries lay tucked away too.

All these small things—I didn't know I had missed them this much. I thought I had forgotten her voice, her touch, her warmth. But I hadn't. They were all still here. In this house.

I didn't realize when a tear rolled down my cheek.

I sat on my knees. At the last drawer of the almirah, there were some boxes. I opened one of them—and found a pair of shoes.

They weren't mine.
Nor Badi Maa's.

I stretched my memory, but nothing came. I put them back in the box and closed the almirah.

I never forget anything—not even the smallest detail of any incident. Yet I didn't remember those shoes.

I looked around the room once more and went into the kitchen to make tea. I had brought milk with me. I had installed the stove here five years ago, just in case I ever came back and needed to cook something.

But my mind wasn't on the tea. It kept replaying memories, trying to recall when I had received those shoes.

I poured the tea into my cup and stepped out of the kitchen when thunder struck.

And suddenly—I remembered.

I rushed back, opened the almirah again, then the shoebox.

Yes.
Those were the shoes given to me by a police officer—when I had to walk barefoot because my slipper had broken.

Now I remembered.

I smiled at the thought, looked at them once more, and was about to put them back when my eyes fell on something else.

At Rudra's House

"Because of Nitin and his night shifts, I have to eat alone," Rudra muttered.
"And this Mohit is making me sick. Why is no one listening to me these days? Such good weather outside but—"

He sighed.
"Leave it. Let's focus on eating."

He placed his food on the table.
"Should I dry my hair first or not? Forget it—I'm hungry."