The Coluds That Havent Finished Raining Yet

The Houses Opposite Each Other

Before Harry Bullar and Smriti Mandhana became part of each other's lives, there were two families living
on opposite sides of the same quiet road.
Villa Eight belonged to the Bullars.
It was rarely silent.
The front door was almost always open, the dining table was never meant for only the people who lived
there, and every conversation somehow became louder than necessary.
Mr. Bullar was the kind of father who hid his concern behind humour. He enjoyed telling stories about his
daughters, especially the ones they repeatedly asked him not to tell. He believed family problems could be
solved with patience, tea and a conversation long enough for everyone to forget why they had been angry.
Mrs. Bullar was the centre of the house.
She knew who had eaten, who had lied about eating and who was upset even before they understood it
themselves. She could stop an argument with one look and restart it with a single innocent question. Her
affection was never dramatic. It appeared in additional food on a plate, medicine placed beside a glass of
water and lights left on until every daughter returned home.
Their eldest daughter, Harry , carried the house without admitting she was carrying anything.
She was a cricketer, a captain and a woman accustomed to making decisions before others had finished
explaining the problem. Her temper arrived quickly, loudly and without warning. People often remembered
that first.
They remembered the raised voice.
The impatient instructions.
The sharp answers.
What they rarely stayed long enough to notice was everything that followed.
Harry would scold the watchman for carrying something heavy and then carry it herself. She would shout
at the children during practice and secretly replace a broken bat before the next morning. She would
complain about responsibility while accepting more of it than anyone had asked her to.
People remembered her storms.
Only her parents knew how peaceful she became once the