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It was one such dusky sunset humbly yielding to the pouring rain when Mukul left the rain of her life. The secret of the lilting melodies of rain conquering its soft hues. As if its vastness wanted to tell Baarish a secret. The twelve years of her life with her mother were so true! Could that truth just wheeze into the darkness? РІР‚СљIt couldnРІР‚в„ўtРІР‚Сњ, was what Baarish kept thinking every evening as she watched the sky gamble with its assiduous colors. Whenever Baarish would look into MukulРІР‚в„ўs dark brown eyes, she felt their pulse. Baarish knew how much she meant to her mother and why Mukul picked this Urdu word for her only childРІР‚в„ўs name. Baarish was baarish, those little pearls pouring down from the skies to sing to MukulРІР‚в„ўs thirst. Right from the moment she named her baby girl to the day she left her Boston home on BaarishРІР‚в„ўs twelfth birthday. She felt every bit of truth bearing BaarishРІР‚в„ўs name. Mukul had named her so because not for a moment could she forget the greatest truth of her life-how happiness suddenly rained upon her. Paradise it was for both Mukul and Baarish. Of creating her lovely angel, her divine glory, her paradise. What showers of pride!! She had so many things to be proud of now-the twinkle of those misty eyes, those uninvited smiles, that growing mischief. And suddenly there was an onrush of fluid joy flooding MukulРІР‚в„ўs life. After the sixth year of her life in Boston, she gave birth to a little charming girl.

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SushilРІР‚в„ўs home taught Mukul how to blend in with her loneliness. Twelve years ago she was swept away from her loving home in Mumbai. MukulРІР‚в„ўs marriage with Sushil, the promising engineer, brought her into the Boston cul-de-sac. Her name bestowed upon her so lavishly by the dearest person to him, the one closest to her heart-Mukul-her mother. The downpours-yes, that is what her name means. The young girl was again stifled by her grandmaРІР‚в„ўs callous queries: РІР‚Сљ What do you keep looking out of your window every evening?РІР‚Сњ Baarish says nothing.Р”В«aarish searches for those lovely little pearls pouring down from heaven. CouldnРІР‚в„ўt you hear me shout your name so many times?РІР‚Сњ Baarish just said РІР‚СљNoРІР‚Сњ as if to redefine her quiet, withdrawn nature.

I cannot keep climbing fourteen stairs and yell my lungs out just to bring you your cup of milk. Her grandmother kept saying how cruel the scamp was to silently hide behind her bedroom window and not answer her. Her white saree bordered with a neat and conventional green looked more like a country flag to Baarish. Just as she was contemplating over her failed muse, her grandmaРІР‚в„ўs husky accents barked РІР‚СљBaarish!РІР‚Сњ As if, she had been excavating for hours to make some ingenious find. Another day goes by without rain! Without baarish!! When shall her name live up to its fullness, its dreams? Her one dream? To our twelve year old Bostonian, sunset was more than a twilight gloom. Baarish quietly watched another sun go down and bring darkness into her life. And a hazy mauve showered Sunset Drive with a painful bliss.