Running dreams.

The boy with the broken umbrella

I was seventeen the first time I saw him. It had rained that afternoon. The kind of rain that turned the town’s dusty roads into brown rivers and made every roof sound like a thousand fingers tapping at once.

I stood beneath the awning outside Sharma’s stationery shop, holding my schoolbooks to my chest. My shoes were soaked. My socks were worse. I was waiting for the rain to soften. It didn’t.

Instead, someone beside me sighed. “At this rate, we’ll both grow fins.”

I turned. He was smiling.

“I don’t think that’s how rain works,” I said.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t know.”

He was holding a black umbrella. Or what had once been one. One side had collapsed. The handle was bent. His hair was wet. There was a small cut above his eyebrow. He looked ridiculous.

I laughed.

He smiled wider. “There.”

“What?”

“That.”

“What?”

“Your laugh.”

I stopped smiling. He looked embarrassed.

“I mean—”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know.”

“So why are you talking about my laugh?”

“Because I heard it.”

I looked away. He adjusted the broken umbrella.

“Fair enough?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll apologize.”

“You should.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Good.”

He nodded solemnly. Then, after three seconds, he said, “Can I ask you one question?”

“No.”

He laughed. I tried not to. I failed.

That was how it began. Not with fireworks. Not with music. With rain. And a boy who did not know when to stop talking.

His name was Aarav Malhotra. He lived two streets from mine. He was studying commerce at the college near the railway station, although he often claimed the only thing he had mastered was finding reasons not to attend class.

He liked old Hindi songs. He hated bitter tea. He couldn’t whistle properly. He was afraid of dogs but pretended otherwise. And he had a habit of remembering things people forgot they’d told him.

Once, I mentioned casually that I liked jasmine. Three days later, he appeared outside Sharma’s with a tiny string of jasmine flowers.

“For you.”

I stared. “You bought these?”

“No.”

“You stole them?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“My grandmother has a plant.”

I took them. He smiled. “I knew you’d like them.”

“How?”

“You told me.”

“When?”

“Last Tuesday.”

I laughed. “You remember everything?”

“Only important things.”

I should have asked him what made me important. I didn’t. I was seventeen.