The Storm Outside

I stood there just outside the gate and watched the storm beginning to rage. There was a strange sense of anticipation in the air which made me anxious; almost unmindful of the strong wind and the rain to follow.

I looked at the house for a moment and then searched for my cell phone in my jeans pocket.

“Would you open the doors?” I said when she picked up the phone.

“Oh! You are already here?” She asked, a tinge of surprise laced in her voice. She probably was not expecting me so soon.

I reached early, I told myself. All my life, I have been late though. I always had a strong feeling that I should have been born in the ‘50s but it too was delayed. By two decades, I think. Terrible.

“If it’s begun to rain, it must be me at your doors. I am the Rain Man, remember.” My reply smacked of my self-obsession.

I pushed open the gate and reached the porch. She was not there yet. I stood there in front of the main door. The creepers and climbers had grown longer on the wall, almost covering an entire side of the entrance gate. Soon I could feel little drops of rain on my body. Oh! It’s raining, finally. This has been such a long dry spell.

There was no sign of her yet. I stood there, looked up at the evening sky fast turning dark with clouds getting low. The wind was getting stronger, the rain drops bigger. I stood there waiting for her. Several minutes passed by. Several memories came rushing back.

“How long have you been here?” she suddenly appeared from inside the house.


I looked at her for a few moments. I looked at those deep dark eyes. “A little while ago,” I replied.

“Come on in,” she said.

For a second, I wished she had not showed up. It has been an age since I met her last. My yearning to see her, for a moment, appeared more powerful an emotion than that of the joy of meeting her.

I stepped forward leaving the storm raging outside.




I will meet you yet again


I will meet you yet again
How and where? I know not.
Perhaps I will become a
figment of your imagination
and maybe, spreading myself
in a mysterious line
on your canvas,
I will keep gazing at you.
Perhaps I will become a ray
of sunshine, to be
embraced by your colours.
I will paint myself on your canvas
I know not how and where –
but I will meet you for sure.
Maybe I will turn into a spring,
and rub the foaming
drops of water on your body,
and rest my coolness on
your burning skin.
I know nothing else
but that this life
will walk along with me.
When the body perishes,
all perishes;
but the threads of memory
are woven with enduring specks.
I will pick these particles,
weave the threads,
and I will meet you yet again…. Main Tenu Phir Milangi by Amrita Pritam

(Image: www.deviantart.com)