Whispers of a Monsoon Evening

The Beginning of a Storm

It was a slow July evening when the clouds over Kolkata rumbled with the promise of a downpour. The station was unusually crowded, wet slippers slapping against the tiled floor, umbrellas clashing, and the smell of pakoras wafting from the corner tea stall.

Ayan boarded the 6:10 train from Howrah—wet, exhausted, but somehow at peace. He loved the rain, the way it made strangers talk less and memories speak louder.

That’s when he saw her.

She stood near the open door of the compartment—eyes closed, the wind playing with her hair, holding an umbrella that had long given up trying to keep her dry.

Her name, he would learn much later, was Mrittika.

A Seat Between Strangers

Ayan sat across from her, drenched and hesitant. He wasn’t one to strike up conversations with random passengers. But something about the way she smiled at the rain—like it was a long-lost lover—made him curious.

Mrittika looked up, caught him watching, and smiled. Not the shy kind. The kind that said, “Yes, I know the rain is beautiful. Sit. Let’s enjoy it together.”

They didn’t speak for ten minutes. Only exchanged glances, and shared a passing laugh when the train jerked and someone’s tea splashed across a businessman’s coat.

Then she said, “I think the rain is a bit like love.”

“How so?” Ayan asked.

“It doesn’t ask permission before arriving. And when it does, you either take cover or dance.”

One Train, Many Journeys

For the next forty-five minutes, they talked. About music, books, the city, and the strange loneliness that clings even when you’re surrounded by people. Mrittika told him she was a literature student at Jadavpur University. Ayan admitted he was still figuring life out.

There were no flirtations, no cheesy lines. Just shared stories—some funny, some fragile.

When the train slowed down at her station, she stood up, hair wet, face glowing. “This was nice,” she said.

“Will I see you again?” he asked, surprising himself.

She tilted her head. “Depends. Will you take the 6:10 again?”

He nodded. She stepped off. The door closed. The train moved.

And just like that, she was gone.

Of Waiting and Wondering

For the next few days, Ayan took the 6:10 train religiously. He sat at the same spot, read the same book, even looked out at the same door hoping to see her. But she didn’t come.

Weeks passed. Monsoon slowly began to fade, and with it, his hope.

Until one day, it rained again. Harder than before.

And there she was.

Standing in the same spot. Same umbrella. Same smile.

“You look like someone who’s been waiting too long,” she teased.

“Only for the rain,” he replied.

She laughed and sat next to him this time.

Love, Lightly Folded in Time

They made a tradition out of that train ride. Every Tuesday and Thursday, 6:10 PM, rain or no rain. Sometimes they brought books to exchange. Sometimes just silence.

Ayan learned she loved old Bengali songs. Mrittika learned he made bad puns when nervous.

Months passed. The rain stopped. Winter came. They weren’t dating. They weren’t strangers. They were... something else. Something softer.

Until one evening, while exiting the station, she stopped, pulled him back, and kissed him—right under the broken station light.

No grand declaration. Just quiet certainty.

Years Later, a Different Rain

Ayan still remembers that monsoon. He still takes the 6:10 sometimes—alone now.

Mrittika left for Delhi for her PhD. Long-distance didn’t work, but love doesn’t always need to.

Sometimes, it’s enough to have been in the same train at the same time.

To have shared rain, words, and one unforgettable kiss.

Love, after all, doesn’t always stay forever.

But some stories do.