The morning feels a little strange.
Light slips in through the open window, yet there is no sun. It is as if the sun has risen only to scatter a pale glow, with no intention of warming anything. It might rain today.
Nimai sits with a newspaper in his hands, turning pages without really reading them. As always, his eyes stop at the weather forecast.
"Rain is likely after afternoon. Thunderstorms may occur in some areas."
He lets out a quiet sigh.
Nimai is a retired schoolteacher, nearly seventy. His wife is no more. His children are busy with their own lives, in different cities, living different stories. This old two-storied house feels emptier every day, as if the walls are trying to speak but no one is listening.
Once, the house was full of movement.
Cooking sounds downstairs, clothes drying on the rooftop, school bags thrown aside at noon, the television on, phones ringing during dinner. Back then, the house was alive.
Now, only Nimai's solitary footsteps echo through the rooms.
And sometimes, the dull sound of a pot being placed on the stove.
Yet there is one presence whose memory lingers more than anything else.
Ira.
His youngest daughter.
Sharp-minded, a little stubborn, but impossibly gentle. She used to smile and speak in a way that made the air around her feel lighter.
Ira had a peculiar belief.
"Baba, whenever I come back, it rains."
At first, Nimai laughed.
Then one day, she arrived in the afternoon and rain suddenly began to fall.
Then again.
And again.
Almost every time she returned, rain followed.
As raindrops tapped against the window glass, Ira's voice would call from the door.
Eventually, he began to believe it himself.
"It's raining… she must be here."
The last time Ira came was three years ago.
A large bag in her hand, a laptop bag on her shoulder, glasses on her nose, a blue sari wrapped around her.
She said,
"This is the last time, Baba. I'm going to America. I got a job. I won't be coming back here anymore."
Nimai said nothing.
He knew.
He only held her hand tightly.
Ira smiled gently and said,
"There won't be any rain when I leave this time, I know. But don't be sad, okay?"
She left.
And never returned.
The first year, Ira called sometimes.
On Christmas, on birthdays, suddenly at eleven at night.
"Baba, what are you doing now?"
"Having tea."
"Why do you drink tea alone?"
"You're not here."
Gradually, the calls grew fewer.
Perhaps Ira's life found new colors.
Now, she sends an email once a month.
Once, Nimai circled a date on the calendar in black ink, the day Ira had said she would return.
That afternoon, he cooked payesh, fried small fish, swept the veranda three times.
At every rickshaw sound, he rushed to the gate.
No one came.
That night, for the first time, he felt like crying, but no tears came.
He buried his face in the pillow and lay silent.
One afternoon, opening the refrigerator, he found a small container of mango pickle Ira had left behind. It had dried out.
He washed the container and placed it back in the fridge.
He couldn't throw it away.
For some reason, it felt like if he did, he would lose his daughter forever.
Once, Ira had left a note beside his bed.
On a small piece of paper, just one line:
"You are my favorite world, Baba. But a world cannot always be carried along."
Nimai reads the note sometimes.
His eyes do not fill with tears, but something presses softly inside his chest.
Today, the sky feels heavy again.
Three years have passed since he last saw Ira.
The forecast of rain feels different today.
He sits quietly on the veranda.
A cup of tea rests beside him. It has gone cold.
The clock inches toward noon.
Suddenly, the sound of a rickshaw.
He wipes his eyes.
The rickshaw stops at the gate.
A familiar figure steps down.
A blue sari. No laptop bag this time, but a small child in her arms. Glasses on her eyes.
Ira.
She stands silently.
Not smiling, not crying.
Just looking at him.
Nimai does not stand up. He says nothing.
He only looks at her, for a long time.
Ira smiles faintly and says,
"See, Baba? Whenever I return, it rains. Even this time."
At that very moment, the first drop falls.
It lands on the veranda railing beside Nimai's cheek.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then many more.
Perhaps the sky does not only pour down water.
Sometimes, it returns what is familiar.