I have a very good relation with rain. When I was born in Orissa

Host: The rain was relentless that evening, a curtain of silver threads against the dim streetlights of the city. The sound of it filled the narrow alleyway, washing away the noise of cars and voices until only the steady heartbeat of falling water remained. Inside a small teahouse, its windows fogged by warmth, Jack sat at a corner table, his coat dripping on the floor. Across from him, Jeeny cupped her hands around a steaming mug, her eyes distant but alive, as if she were listening to something beyond the walls.

The rain fell harder.

The air was thick with the smell of wet earth, the faint hum of neon lights, and the quiet ache of two people wrestling with something unspoken.

Jeeny: “Do you know what Varun Sandesh once said? ‘I have a very good relation with rain. When I was born in Orissa, there were severe floods. Even now it rains on my birthday.’”

Jack: “He sounds like a man who believes the universe remembers his schedule.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, rough like gravel, but beneath the sarcasm there was a faint tremor, a kind of longing hidden under cynicism. Jeeny smiled softly, her fingers tracing the steam as it curled toward the ceiling.

Jeeny: “Maybe the universe does remember us, Jack. Maybe it marks us — not out of arrogance, but connection. You ever think rain isn’t just weather, but memory?”

Jack: “Memory? It’s condensed vapor, Jeeny. Evaporation, condensation, precipitation. A cycle. Science doesn’t care about birthdays or destinies.”

Jeeny: “Then why does it feel alive? Why does it always come when we’re broken, or waiting, or in love? Haven’t you noticed how people look out the window differently when it rains?”

Host: A car splashed through a puddle outside. The reflections rippled across the ceiling, painting their faces with fractured light. Jeeny leaned forward; her voice softened but deepened, like a melody whispered to the storm.

Jeeny: “Rain reminds us of our fragility. When it floods, it destroys; when it drizzles, it heals. Orissa — that’s where Varun was born — suffered floods that year, yet he still calls it a good relation. That’s not denial. That’s reverence. He understands that even in ruin, there’s something sacred.”

Jack: “Sacred? Tell that to the families who lost everything in those floods. Tell that to the farmers whose homes washed away. There’s nothing holy about destruction. Nature doesn’t bless — it equalizes.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? It’s the same water that nourishes crops, that fills rivers, that sustains us. Destruction and creation — they share the same sky. Isn’t that the essence of existence?”

Jack: “Sounds poetic. But poetry doesn’t rebuild villages.”

Host: The wind pushed the rain harder against the glass, a rhythmic drumming that blurred the world outside. Jack’s grey eyes followed a drop sliding down the pane — slow, deliberate, until it vanished. He looked tired, the kind of tired that came from fighting what couldn’t be controlled.

Jeeny: “Jack… you always measure life by its logic. But not everything has to make sense. Sometimes what’s real can’t be explained.”

Jack: “That’s what people say when they’ve run out of explanations.”

Jeeny: “Or when they’ve found peace.”

Host: Silence hung between them. The teahouse clock ticked softly. Outside, a man with a torn umbrella laughed as he ran through the rain, his boots splashing through puddles. For a brief moment, Jack’s expression shifted — as if the sound of that laughter touched a forgotten part of him.

Jack: “You really think rain remembers you? That it chooses moments like birthdays and heartbreaks out of empathy?”

Jeeny: “Not empathy. Resonance. Maybe it falls because something in us calls it. Maybe the sky mirrors our pulse.”

Jack: “That’s beautiful nonsense.”

Jeeny: “Is it nonsense that we name hurricanes? That we talk about storms as if they have tempers? Humans have always known weather isn’t just physical — it’s emotional. Think of the monsoons — the farmers in India wait months for it, pray for it, dance for it. When the rain finally comes, they celebrate like it’s a god returning.”

Jack: “That’s not emotion, that’s survival.”

Jeeny: “And survival is the most emotional thing there is.”

Host: Her words struck like a quiet thunderclap. Jack’s hand tightened around his cup, the steam rising between them like a thin wall of smoke. He exhaled slowly, watching the window fog and clear again.

Jack: “You think floods and prayers make a relationship. I think they make coincidence. You assign meaning to what’s random because it comforts you.”

Jeeny: “And you strip meaning away from everything because it scares you.”

Host: The tension snapped in the air, sharp as lightning. For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The rain roared louder, as if to echo Jeeny’s last words. Jack looked up, his eyes dark and distant.

Jack: “When I was a kid, it rained the day my father left. Every year after that, I hated the sound. You talk about rain like it’s an old friend. For me, it was a reminder. Of emptiness. Of walking home soaked because no one was waiting.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why it still finds you. Maybe it’s trying to wash that away.”

Jack: “You talk like the rain’s a therapist.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Every drop listens, Jack. It falls for everyone, equally — the grieving, the joyful, the forgotten. It touches what humans refuse to.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, but it carried warmth. The light from the street flickered, and for an instant, her face glowed in the reflection — half real, half dream. The storm outside reached its peak, a living orchestra of sound and pulse.

Jack: “You really believe nature feels us?”

Jeeny: “I believe it reflects us. When it rains, it’s the sky weeping for us. When it stops, it’s forgiveness.”

Jack: “Forgiveness doesn’t fall from the sky, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Then where does it come from, Jack?”

Host: The question hung heavy. Jack opened his mouth, then closed it. The steam from his cup rose between them, and something in his posture softened — a crack in the armor.

Jack: “Maybe it comes from the moment we stop blaming the weather.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it comes from realizing the weather was never to blame.”

Host: The storm began to ease, the raindrops gentler now, a soft percussion on the windowpane. The air felt lighter, the teahouse warmer. Jeeny smiled, her eyes glistening with a reflection of the fading storm.

Jeeny: “See? Even the rain knows when to stop fighting.”

Jack: “Or maybe it just ran out of clouds.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it ran out of anger.”

Host: Jack’s lips curved, almost imperceptibly — the ghost of a smile. The rain slowed to a drizzle, each drop like a whisper, a soft punctuation to their argument.

Jack: “You said Varun called it a good relation. Maybe he was right. Maybe it’s not about what the rain does, but what it reminds us of — beginnings, endings, the space between.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not the storm that defines us, Jack. It’s how we stand under it.”

Host: Outside, the sky began to clear, revealing the faintest glow of moonlight through the retreating clouds. The streets shimmered, alive with the reflection of the city’s heart. Jeeny reached out and touched Jack’s hand lightly, her fingers cool and damp from the condensation of her cup.

Jeeny: “Maybe next time it rains, you won’t hide from it.”

Jack: “Maybe next time, I’ll listen.”

Host: And for a long, quiet moment, they did — listening to the last few drops fall like the closing notes of a forgotten song.

The rain had stopped, but its echo lingered in the air — a promise, a memory, a rhythm that belonged to both of them now.

And outside the teahouse, under the silver sheen of streetlight, the world looked clean again.