Monsoon Hearts

The first raindrop hit Meera’s windshield just as she turned onto the winding mountain road that led to Kasauli. She switched on the wipers, watching them sweep across the glass in a rhythmic dance that somehow matched the nervous flutter in her chest. After three years in London, she was finally coming home—though home felt like a foreign concept now. The monsoon had arrived early this year, painting the hills in every shade of green imaginable. Through her car window, she could see the mist clinging to the pine trees like gossamer threads, and for a moment, she forgot about the divorce papers in her briefcase and the gallery opening she’d abandoned in Chelsea. Her phone buzzed against the passenger seat. Another call from Marcus, no doubt. She let it ring. The GPS announced her destination in that clinical voice she’d grown to hate: “You have arrived.” Meera pulled up to the weathered wooden gate of her grandmother’s cottage, the same gate she’d swung on as a child during summer holidays. The brass nameplate still read “Monsoon House” in her grandmother’s elegant Devanagari script, though it was now green with age. As she stepped out of the car, the petrichor hit her like a memory made tangible. That sweet, earthy scent of rain on dry soil transported her instantly to afternoons spent reading on the veranda while Nani told stories of monsoon spirits and rain gods. “You’re late,” came a voice from the shadows of the covered porch. Meera froze. That wasn’t possible. The cottage had been empty for months since Nani’s passing. A figure emerged from the darkness—tall, lean, with paint-stained fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. His dark hair was damp from the rain, and his eyes held the kind of warmth that made you want to tell him your secrets. “I’m sorry,” Meera stammered, “I think there’s been some mistake. This is my grandmother’s house—” “Kamala Devi’s granddaughter,” he said, not a question but a statement. “She told me you’d come when the monsoon called you home.”