Voices of Love

Rain and Rickshaws

The clouds had been hanging low over Ludhiana all evening, but no one took them seriously. After all, it was mid-March—too late for winter rain, too early for monsoon. Most of the night shift didn’t even bother with jackets, let alone umbrellas.

At 5:40 AM, just twenty minutes before the end of the shift, the sky finally broke open.

The rain didn’t announce itself gently—it thundered down with the kind of fury that made the tin roof over the reception area sound like a war drum. Everyone rushed to the windows or pulled out their phones, half-delighted, half-dreading the commute.

Samridhi stared at the water pouring in sheets across the street, her face caught somewhere between annoyance and awe. “I didn’t bring anything,” she muttered.

“Didn’t think we’d need an ark this week,” Sandeep replied, appearing beside her with his bag slung over his shoulder.

The glass fogged up as the air turned damp and cold. Outside, the streetlights cast a yellow shimmer over the puddles.

“Well,” he said, “your options are: wait here for two hours, or take the adventure route and brave it with me.”

She looked at him. “Adventure route?”

“I have my scooter.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You expect me to get on a scooter in a downpour, with no helmet, no raincoat, and your driving?”

He gave her a wicked grin. “Live a little.”

She exhaled, glancing once more at the storm outside. The idea was ridiculous. Messy. Stupid, probably. But then again, the safest options in her life had only ever led to dead ends.

“Fine,” she said, already pulling her scarf over her head. “But if I catch a cold, I’m blaming you.”

“You can blame me for a lot of things,” he replied, opening the glass door for her, “but you won’t regret this.”

They ran out into the rain like kids skipping class. The water was cold and immediate, soaking through her scarf and kurta within seconds. She laughed—not because anything was funny, but because it had been so long since she’d let herself do something without calculating the consequences.

Sandeep kicked the scooter into life, then turned to her. “Ready?”

“Not even close,” she grinned, climbing on behind him.

As they zipped through the soaked streets of early morning Ludhiana, water spraying from the tires and wind hitting their faces, it didn’t feel like a commute. It felt like escape.

They passed closed shops, overflowing drains, and the occasional bewildered auto-driver still trying to make a fare. The rain blurred everything—billboards, headlights, street signs. But somehow, in the middle of it all, she felt clear.

Halfway through, they had to stop under an awning as visibility dropped to almost nothing.

They parked beside a shuttered sweets shop, both of them dripping. Samridhi’s hair clung to her face, her eyeliner smudged, her scarf half-falling off.

“You look like a disaster,” he said.

She shot him a mock glare. “So do you. Your poetry notebook is probably drowning.”

He quickly checked his bag, relieved. “Safe. Thank God. My deepest feelings didn’t die today.”

She laughed again. Not politely. Not cautiously. Fully.

They stood under the awning for five minutes, catching their breath, the rain pounding on the corrugated roof above them. Something in the air between them changed—warmer than the chill, heavier than the silence.

Then, without thinking, Samridhi reached out and tucked a wet strand of hair behind his ear.

Sandeep froze.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, pulling her hand back.

“No—” he shook his head, voice soft. “It’s okay.”

They looked at each other, soaked, shivering, unsure. The rain didn’t stop. The city didn’t wake. But something had shifted—quiet and slow, like the kind of moment that could easily be ignored but would stay with them forever.

By the time they reached her place, the rain had turned into a drizzle. She stepped off the scooter, clothes clinging to her, shoes squelching.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, brushing water off her arm.

He nodded, pushing his wet hair back. “Anytime.”

She hesitated at the gate. “You were right. I don’t regret it.”

Sandeep smiled. “Good.”

Then, without warning, she leaned in and kissed his cheek—just once, quickly, before turning toward the door.

He stood there stunned, the raindrops now feeling warmer somehow.

“Samridhi,” he called out before she disappeared.

She turned slightly.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he said.

She smirked. “Worth it.”

And with that, she vanished inside, leaving Sandeep standing on the wet street, smiling like an i***t in the rain.