on a rain day love story

On a Rainy Day

— A story of kadam flowers, quiet hearts, and home.

The sky over Pallabpur had worn a gray shawl since morning. Heavy clouds lingered low, almost brushing the tops of the coconut trees that swayed in the breeze. A soft, earthy scent filled the air, mixed with the sweet, nostalgic smell of blooming kadam flowers. Rain was coming. Everyone in the village could feel it.

Meghla stood beside the narrow canal that cut through the village like a silver ribbon. Her schoolbag dangled from one shoulder, slightly damp from the rising mist in the air. Classes had ended an hour ago, but she wasn’t in a hurry to go home. Her sandals were half-soaked from walking along the muddy path, yet she didn’t seem to mind.

She often came here after school, not to meet anyone—at least that’s what she told herself—but to wait. For the sky to open, for memories to rise, and maybe, just maybe, for someone.

“Still standing here, Meghla?”

The voice came from behind, familiar and warm like a monsoon breeze before the storm.

She turned and saw Arian—taller now, wider, but still with that mischievous smile he had as a boy. He had returned to the village a few weeks ago after years in Dhaka, having decided to take over the care of his father’s lands.

“I thought you’d forgotten this place,” Meghla said, trying not to let her voice betray the surprise—or the joy—she felt.

Arian grinned and held up a small bundle wrapped in a handkerchief. Opening it, he revealed a cluster of freshly picked kadam flowers.

“I never forget the things that smell like home,” he said. “Picked them for you from the riverbank this morning. Still remember how you used to race me to get the first ones in bloom?”

Meghla took the flowers in her hand and smiled softly. “I do. Back then, everything felt like it would last forever.”

“But nothing ever does,” Arian replied, his tone more serious now. “Except maybe some feelings we never learned how to name.”

The first drops of rain began to fall—soft, hesitant, like a lover unsure if they’re welcome. Meghla looked up as the sky opened slowly, washing the leaves, the air, and the silence between them. They ran to the old brick shed near the pond, a place that had once been their fort during childhood adventures.

Inside, they sat on the low ledge, watching the rain blur the horizon. The fields shimmered under the silver drizzle, and the world seemed to slow.

Arian looked over at her. “You know, when you left for Dhaka, I thought I’d be fine. I thought we were just kids, that you’d come back and everything would be the same. But it wasn’t. Every day felt a little off, like a song missing one note.”

Meghla turned to him, eyes calm and honest. “I waited for you to say something. A word. A letter. Anything.”

“I didn’t know how to,” he admitted. “I still don’t. I just… I kept picking kadam flowers. Even when you weren’t here.”

She reached out and touched his hand. “You don’t have to say it now. I already know.”

Outside, the rain fell harder, playing a soft rhythm on the tin roof. The kadam flowers on Meghla’s lap looked even brighter now, soaked in memory and meaning.

As dusk approached, she stood and said, “Come on, let’s go. If we stay longer, Amma will start asking questions I’m not ready to answer.”

Arian chuckled. “I think everyone in Pallabpur will have their own answers by tomorrow.”

From that day forward, Meghla and Arian were no longer just memories of childhood. Every monsoon, they walked side by side along the canal, sometimes speaking, sometimes just listening to the rain. Always with kadam flowers in hand.

Villagers would smile and say,

“On a rainy day, when the kadam blooms, that’s when their story begins again.”

Because love, real love, doesn’t always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes it returns with the rain, with silence, and with someone who still brings you flowers.

 who still feels like home.