Drops for All

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Every raindrop that pit patters upon the earth comes with a value of its own but it is valued that remains upon the reciever.................

Submitted: January 28, 2013

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Submitted: January 28, 2013





“Mum, are the rains very bad?”, seven year old Kinshuk was tentatively looking for the night-time shower of curiosity on his mother as the clouds outside were thinking of showering the Earth. For some people the world can be easily confined to small square frames, in this case it was an Italian design on teakwood.

“No. They aren’t. Who told you that?”

“No one actually but I was thinking about it?”, the next second was a break and then an outburst, “Mum,tell me the story about rains again, please!”

“Again?  Kinu I must have told you that at least twenty times this monsoon and anyway its eleven, you should have been in your bed half an hour ago. Come be sharp, you got to wake up early tomorrow for Dr. Mohanti.”

 Her Kinu had a mix of frown, moan and plead on his face as he looked intently towards her eyes.

“Okay but just five more minutes, not a second in excess.” Mothers never have a higher pleasure than the scene of their children smiling. Kinu was back at his designer frame world and it showed him the bliss of a normal childhood drenching its innocence in water.

“Mum have you ever been in the rain? Does it feel very good?”

“Yes very good. But now your time is up. Let’s go to the bed. ” She lifted him from his wheel chair to the bed and placed her son with utmost care. Kinshuk was born quadraleptic and with only four percent innate immunity developed at birth. He was a royal toad, quarantined away into a gold lined well, away from the flowing rivers. 

“Mum yesterday Miss. Mehra was telling that bad things only happen to bad people. Is it true?” His mother approved with a slight nod, quite engaged in her manoeuvres of preparing a comfortable station for his sleep.

“Rains are so nice, people feel very good about it. They enjoy so much.” Meanwhile his mother was busy covering him in a blanket. “Mum am I very bad ?”

The blanket could only cover the child to his waist as the hand grabbing its ends grabbed on to the face of its tenant. And the voice that came was wobbly. It had sympathy. It had pathos. It had care.

“No son. You are the best one there is. Besides you catch pneumonia getting wet in rain. You are better off here. Safe and sound.”

The lady turned the lights off and kissed her son goodnight and goodbye, but as she was leaving she stole a look at the bony face, currently lit by an artificial light of the small electric lamp on the bed post. I wonder what was going through her brain. I can only guess. I think she was wishing for few moments for her son in which he could let himself get carried away in the rain and experience himself the answer he wanted. The price, I don’t think it mattered at this moment. She could give her all, but for now she would have to be content with the fact that he was sleeping peacefully.

But I wonder if his cosy bed could comfort his questions. Life, as it is, I wonder.


Two hundred metres south, another seven year old Kinu had engaged his mother about rains. Today Kinu was firm he would not sleep till he gets satisfied. “Mai, why does it have to rain?”, the question was easy.

“Because we would not be able to live if it didn’t and don’t start your rapid fire now. I got a lot of chores to finish off.” His weary looking mother was now trying to be evasive. “Moreover you bunked your school because you had fever. Go to bed or teacher didi knows of this lie tomorrow.”

“Go tell her, anyway you would tomorrow. Miss Mehra wouldn’t do anything except to warn me again. Now tell me why does it have to rain?”

“For the farmers to give us food and for trees to grow. Its all done by the gods.”

“What about us? Why don’t they stop this roof from dripping. Thats unfair.”

“No, its our destiny. Now don’t irritate me. Sleep or shut up.”

“Mai, teacher didi told me that god punishes bad people.  Is she right?”

The mother could only give a nod engaged in her own world of silent ordeals and struggle for means.

“Yeah, she’s right. We get what we do. Now are you going to sleep or I throw you out in the rain.” Her irritation now was clear. The lady here is a poor widow, running her life just on hope, a hope that was lying on a cot placed in corner; a life that was under shelter of dripping roofs. Two years ago, her husband was given an eternal honour of a martyr. Although at a modest post of sub-inspector, he kept his lifestyle at an optimum, a nice loving wife and a son. He and his family were enjoying a life that was worth being content with. All until that fateful shootout. Their life ended with his funeral procession; left out of the government quarters without any finance only with a petty consolation for the bravery. Two years since then, Meenaxi Singh now feeds her son working at nearby houses. Fate crossed a pretty bad figure on its second chance.

Kinu was now staring at his mothers face, on her deliriousness. The mother was not involved enough to not notice this. “What now?”

“First Papa left me, then I had to leave my house and my school and now we are here heaped above a garbage bin. I must very bad? Am I very bad mai.”

She wished she could give a simple answer. Wishes nearly always fail for the wanting. It was her turn to stare at him. Their eyes met, one was wet another was curious asking a million questions each moment. He turned on his bed to look at the falling drops and a dog seeking refuge beneath a waste truck. It was hard to opt for the more innocent quest.

© Copyright 2018 Kaafir. All rights reserved.

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