In Case the Rain Comes Back

1. The Insult  

The Grand Hyatt, Santacruz. Pharma Innovation Summit 2026.

Air thick with jargon and complimentary coffee.  I was there for three reasons: free wine, free food, and because my manager put my name on the Excel sheet to represent my department. Mumbai rent doesn’t pay itself, and cooking for one feels like a punishment. My parents call from Bangalore every Sunday to ask if I’ve learned to make dal. I lie.  I am a good liar! Or at least I believe so. Here I was leaning against a pillar, second glass of Sula red in hand, telling a stranger why these conclaves are corporate theatre.  “Look, I get it. You people, put ‘synergy’ and ‘patient-centric’ in a PPT and bill the client 40 lakhs. But out there?” I waved at the window, at the WEH traffic. “Nothing changes. Doctors still write what the MR tells them. Patients still Google side effects. This? This is just air-conditioned guilt.”  The stranger was tall—French cut. Charcoal bandhgala. Eyes that didn’t glaze over when I said “air-conditioned guilt.”

“Harsh,” he said.

“Honest,” I said. “You Pharma too?”  He laughed. “God, no.”  We talked. Not Pharma. Movies — why “Laapataa Ladies” deserved the Oscar nod. Sports — Kohli’s test retirement. Strait of Hormuz — will oil hit $100? He knew the price of Brent crude and the name of the umpire in the 2011 final.

“Pharma guys are usually boring,” I told him. “Millennials especially. All LinkedIn posts and no life. You’re different.”  He smiled. “Maybe I’m not Pharma.”  A voice cracked over the speakers. “We now invite Mr Arjun Kumar, GM, Marketing, Veda Lifesciences, to deliver the keynote on ‘Brands That Heal’.”  He put his glass down. “I have to go. I was enjoying this.”

“Why?” I said, still clueless.

“Because my name is Arjun. And for the next one hour, I’m supposed to bore the audience.”  He walked away.

I stood there with my mouth open and Sula red in my throat. 

2. The Booze 

 Two hours later. Open bar.  I knew by then. Arjun Kumar. 38. GM, Marketing. 1000 Cr portfolio. Launched Cydol, the antacid that killed Digene in three states. IIM-A. Marathoner. Profiled in Forbes. 

And I’d told him his industry was useless.  I hid behind a potted palm.  “One lecture doesn’t change me,” a voice said behind me.

I turned. He had two glasses of white wine.

“You were still you before I went on stage,” he said. “I’d like to meet THE YOU again.”  “Sir, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean— These conclaves are actually very—”

“Neelu,” he cut in. “I liked the unfiltered, unapologetic you. Don’t change. And for the record? I also find these conclaves boring.”  “Really?”

“Yes. Until I meet someone interesting. A Gen Z who dares to speak the truth.”  I’m not Gen Z. I’m 29. But I didn’t correct him.  Three drinks in, I was me again. Carefree. Blunt.

“Why do Pharma bros have no game?” I asked.

“Because we peaked in Organic Chemistry,” he said. “You should see us try to flirt. We quote dissolution profiles.”  I snorted wine through my nose. 

3. The Frequency 

 We started meeting. Not dates. Mumbai doesn’t do labels.

Drinks at Socials. Prithvi for a Hindi play — Ankahi. Stand-up at Habitat. Sea-face drives when the world felt too loud.  I liked his brain. He could shift from US FDA guidelines to why Guns & Gulaabs was genius without losing breath. I liked that he listened, really listened, when I ranted about my boss.

He said he liked that I didn’t care about designations. That my world was books, rain, and why street dogs in Bandra were happier than CEOs. “You remind me there’s life outside IMS data,” he told me once.  We were not a couple. We were an ‘every other day’. 

4. The Rain 

 August. Socials, Andheri West. Terrace table.

Mumbai rain was a religion for both of us. Other people ran. We ordered a third round and watched the city dissolve. The rain hit different when you were a little high — it blurred the edges, made everything feel like a movie you didn’t want to end.  But this rain wasn’t romantic. It was violent. It had been coming down since 7 AM. By 8 PM, my phone was screaming.

BMC Alert: Andheri Subway closed.

Waterlogging: Sion, Dadar, Kurla, Lower Parel.

Traffic: Standstill.  Arjun looked at his phone, then at the grey wall of water outside. “Shit.”  “What?”

“I have to present to my Global Head at 9 AM. Singapore’s flying down. I’ve been chasing this slot for six months. If I don’t make it home to Powai, get sleep, press my shirt… I’m done.”  He ran a hand through his hair. French cut, ruined. “I should’ve left right after work. Stupid. Stupid.”  I watched him. Mr. 1000 Cr Brand. Mr. Forbes. Helpless because of the Mumbai weather.  A thought came, stupid and simple.

“You can come to my place,” I said. “Crash. Iron your shirt. Wear the same bandhgala tomorrow. It’s black. No one will know.”  He blinked. “No, Neelu. It’s fine. I’ll figure—”

“You won’t. There are no cabs. Trains are dead. You will miss your meeting.”  He exhaled. “Shit. I… where do you even stay?”  I smiled. First time he’d asked.

“Because you never asked,” I said. “And I love my space. I usually don’t invite anyone to my house.”  The rain hit the awning like applause.

He looked at me. Unfiltered, unapologetic Neelu.

And for the first time, I saw Arjun Kumar, GM Marketing, look scared.  Not of the rain.

Not of his Global Head.  Of saying yes. 

5. The Walk  

We waited till 11:30 PM.

No Uber. No Kaali-Peeli. No Auto. No hope.

The rain had stopped pretending to be romantic and turned into something Biblical. Socials kicked us out at closing.  “Seven Bungalows,” I said, pulling my dupatta over my head. “Ten minutes if we run. Two hours if we wait for this to stop.”  He looked at his bandhgala. “This is Canali.”

“It’ll be Canali and drenched,” I said. “Come on, GM sahab.”  We ran.

Mumbai rain doesn’t fall. It attacks. In three minutes, we were soaked. His Canali clung to him like regret. My kurti was transparent, and I didn’t care. There’s a freedom in being so wet that modesty drowns first.  We didn’t talk. We just laughed — that stupid, breathless laugh you do when the universe is being absurd, and you’re alive in it.

He slipped once near the JVPD signal. I caught his arm. His skin was cold.

“You okay?” I yelled over the rain.

“Never better,” he yelled back.  Liar. 

6. The Space  

My 1BHK on the third floor. No lift.

450 sq ft of Neelu. Books are stacked against the walls because I never bought a bookshelf. A monstera I kept forgetting to water. Fairy lights because tube lights felt like interrogation. The whole place smelled of old paper and eucalyptus oil.  He stood at the door, dripping on my jute mat.

“Don’t look,” I said. “You’ll start making IMS reports on my lifestyle.”  He stepped in. Shoes off. He looked around like he was entering a temple he wasn’t sure he believed in.

“You said you love your space,” he said quietly.

“I do.”

“Then why—”

“Because you looked scared, Arjun. And I’ve never seen you scared.”  Silence. Only the rain is hitting my window AC.  “Bathroom is there. Towel on the hook. It’s pink. Deal with it.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve been wet before. You have a meeting.”  He went in. I heard the shower start.

I changed in my bedroom, into old pajamas and a college tee that said IIM-B Fest 2018. Pulled my hair into a bun. Looked at myself in the mirror.

This is a bad idea, Neelu.

This is the best idea, Neelu.  He came out in my pink towel and his boxers. Canali was hanging on the shower rod like a dead body.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be. You look… vulnerable. I like it.”  I handed him my brother’s old shorts and a T-shirt that said Jaipur Lit Fest. It fit tight across his shoulders.

“Better?”

“Worse. Now I look like a startup founder.”  We both laughed. Then didn’t. 

7. The Ironing Board  

1:00 AM.

I set up the ironing board in the hall. The same one I used once every six months.

He sat on the floor, laptop open, making last-minute changes to his deck. Hair damp, falling on his forehead. No French cut. No GM. Just Arjun.  “You’re good at this,” he said, watching me press his bandhgala.

“My mom taught me. ‘Neelu, learn to iron. Husbands like neat, ironed shirts.’”

“And you said?”

“I said I don’t want a husband who can’t iron.”  He smiled. Didn’t look up from his screen.  The only sound was the steam hiss and the rain. Mumbai had gone quiet, as it does at 1 AM when it’s given up for the night.  “Neelu.”

“Hmm?”

“Why don’t you ever invite people over?”  I kept ironing. The collar. The sleeves. The pocket where his heart would be.

“Because this place is mine. No judgment. No, you should get married. No ‘when will you settle down’. Here, I’m not a manager or a daughter or 29 and single. I’m just… me.”  He closed his laptop.

“And now I’m here.”

“And now you’re here.” 

8. The 2 AM Conversation 

We didn’t sleep.

We sat on the floor, back against my sofa, sharing a chipped mug of chai I made because the night demanded it.

He told me about his first brand launch that flopped. He sat in front of his laptop and cried silently.

I told him about the time I got dumped over text msg during a Brand Plan presentation. How I finished the presentation, went to the washroom, and threw up.  

We didn’t touch.

But the space between us was gone.  “Tomorrow,” he said, staring at the rain, “I’ll go give that presentation. Singapore guy will nod. I’ll get the budget. Maybe a promotion.”

“And?”

“And I’ll come back to my 2BHK in Powai. Empty. And I’ll think… ‘Brands that heal’. What a joke. I can’t even heal my own Sundays.”  I didn’t say anything. Because what do you say to that?  At 3:00 AM, he said, “I should sleep. Big day.”

I gave him my bed. “I’ll take the sofa.”

“No. I’m not—”

“Arjun. You have Singapore at 9. I have a hangover at 11. I win.”  He lay down. I switched off the light.

From the sofa, I could hear him breathing.

Or not breathing.  “Neelu?” he said into the dark.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For not asking me to leave.”  “Thank you,” I said, “for not making me regret asking you to stay.”

9. The Morning  

5:30 AM.

He was already up. Dressed. Bandhgala perfect. Hair combed back. GM, Marketing again.

I made him black coffee. No sugar. Just like he liked it.  At the door, he hesitated.

“I’ll…”

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t make it weird. You have a meeting. Go kill it.”  He nodded. Then did the bravest thing Arjun Kumar had done in ten years.

He took a key from his wallet. His Powai flat key.

Kept it on my table.

“In case the rain comes back,” he said.  And left. 

10. The After  

He killed the presentation.

Singapore shook his hand. “We need more Arjun Kumars.”

His phone had 17 missed calls from his team. Sir, you legend. Sir, Global Head was smiling.  He didn’t go back to Powai.

He came to Seven Bungalows.  6:47 PM. My door was locked. The monstera looked thirstier.

He called. Switched off.

He knocked. No answer.

He went to Socials. The waiter said, “Madam hasn’t come since the rain, sir.”  For seven days, Arjun Kumar, GM Marketing, did what he hadn’t done in ten years: wait.

Outside a 1BHK that didn’t want him.  Day four. His cabin at Veda Lifesciences.

On his desk, under a paperweight shaped like a Cydol tablet, was his key.

No note. No lipstick mark. Just the key. And the faint smell of eucalyptus oil. 

11. The Secret  

I don’t let people in. Not because I love my space.

Because my space is a crime scene.  My name isn’t Neelu.

Not legally.  Six years ago, Bangalore. Final year MBA. I was Nalini. Nalini Rao.

My fiancé was Karan. Pharma sales.

He was brilliant. Abusive. The kind that doesn’t leave bruises on your skin. He leaves them on your phone bills, your self-esteem, and your passwords.  The last time he hit me, I didn’t call the police.

I called my father.

My father came to our flat. Karan laughed. “Your daughter is mad, uncle. She imagines things.”

My father believed him.  That night, I took my mother’s sleeping pills. All of them.

I woke up three days later in St. John’s. Police case. Attempt to suicide. Family dispute.

Karan told HR I was “mentally unstable.” He has got the fake medical certificates made. After all, knowing a few Big Shot doctors does help. They fired me before I could resign. My father stopped taking my calls.  I changed my name. Nalini died. Neelu was born.

Mumbai doesn’t ask for your past if you pay rent on time.  So no, Arjun. I don’t invite people over.

Because what if you open my cupboard and find court papers instead of clothes?

What if you see the scar on my waist and ask how I got it? 

What if you stay, and then Karan finds me? He still sends emails. “Miss you, Nali.” From fake IDs.  You said I was unfiltered.

I am. About movies. About the Strait of Hormuz. About your boring conclaves.

I’m not unfiltered about myself.

12. The Vanish  

I resigned the day after I left your key.

Left the job. Left the 1BHK. Left my number.

My landlord said a guy in a bandhgala came every evening for a week. Sat on the stairs. Then stopped coming.  I moved to Goa. Got a job at a boutique hotel. Receptionist. No PPTs. No conclaves.

Tourists don’t ask for your resume. They ask for extra towels.  I think of you when it rains.

Goa rains are different. They’re honest. They don’t flood roads. They just wash.  Do you still have the key?

Throw it, Arjun.

Keys are for people who want to come back.  And Nalini doesn’t exist.

Neelu was just a monsoon.

Monsoons aren’t supposed to stay. 

13. The Epilogue: 

Arjun: He keeps the key.

Not on his keychain. In his drawer. Under the Forbes article.  Sometimes, at 2 AM, when Powai is too silent and the next brand launch tastes like air-conditioned guilt, he takes it out. 

He thinks: Why didn’t I just book an OYO? Trains were dead. Cabs were impossible. But there were hotels. So why didn’t I? 

Or did I know — even then — that I wanted to see the corner of the world she kept locked?

He doesn’t use the key. He just looks at it.

He just holds it.  Because some people don’t enter your house, Neelu.

They enter your weather.  And long after the rain is gone, you still feel wet.