The Color of Rain

Aarav and Meera met quietly and naturally in a village where traditions were stronger than winds, just like rivers find the sea. Meera was the daughter of a respected priest. Good manners, quiet prayers, and a marriage chosen by others were already written in ink for her. Free-spirited, Aarav was the son of the village painter. He always had colors in his hands and dreams in his eyes. One spring morning, they met near the temple pond. Meera had slipped while chasing her little brother, and Aarav caught her before she hit the stone path. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, it felt like time itself took a breath.

That was the beginning.

They met intermittently thereafter, either on the riverbank, behind the temple, or beneath the ancient banyan tree that stood alone at the field's edge. They spoke of small things, and sometimes, of forever.

But forever wasn’t theirs to have.

Whispers started circling like vultures. Villagers noticed the way they looked at each other. Meera's mother started to warn her: Meera, people talk. You must think of your family’s honor.”

And then came the storm.

Meera was summoned into the sitting room one evening. Her father sat stone-faced. An older man next to him, she didn't know. Her father informed her, "This is Raghav." "You will tie the knot in two weeks." Meera felt the air leave her chest. "What about my desire?" Her mother’s voice was quiet but sharp. “This is not about what you want. This is about doing the right thing. She dashed to the banyan tree at midnight. Aarav was already there, as if he had felt her heartbreak from miles away.

“They’ve arranged everything,” she said, choking on the words. "I will be getting married." Aarav stood silent for a while, his jaw clenched, hands trembling. Finally, he said, “Then let’s have one last night. No sadness, no tears. Just us.”

As the sky began to get darker, they sat under the tree and supported each other. He showed her a sketch — the two of them, sitting in the rain, holding hands. Meera ran her fingers across the drawing as if to memorize it.

“I wish we lived in a different world,” she said.

“I wish the same,” he replied. “But maybe even in this world, a love like ours can leave a mark.”

Meera was dressed in a red bridal saree the next morning. The ceremony was grand. People smiled. Drums beat. And somewhere in the crowd, Aarav stood, unseen, heart breaking with every ritual.

When Meera walked past him after the wedding, their eyes met for half a second — just enough to say all the words they couldn’t.

Years passed.

Meera lived her life the way society wanted. A quiet home. A quiet husband. A quiet ache that never left her chest.

One day, while visiting her old village with her children, she walked alone to the banyan tree. Time had aged it, but its strength remained. Carved into the bark, weathered and faint, was the sketch Aarav had once shown her.

Two figures. hand in hand. sitting outside in the rain. Meera smiled through her tears.

Because even though the world had denied their love — it had once been real. And in that sketch, under that tree, it would always be.