Second Monsoon

Ramanathan Iyer woke up to the sound of rain. A steady, gentle drizzle, the kind that had once made him smile. Now, it only reminded him of the night he lost her.

Janaki, his wife. His one true friend. 

It had been their 50th wedding anniversary, a milestone neither of them had truly acknowledged. She had placed a single jasmine flower in his shirt pocket that morning—just as she had done every day since their marriage—and they had sat together, sipping filter coffee in the quiet comfort of their Mylapore home. That evening, she collapsed owing to a cardiac arrest, whilst lighting a lamp in the puja room. By the time the ambulance arrived, she was gone.

That was six months ago.

Now, at 75, Ramanathan found himself in a house that felt too large, with too many shadows and too much silence. He had no children—by choice, not by fate. He and Janaki had decided early in their marriage that their world was complete with just the two of them. “We’ll grow old together, just us,” she had often said. But now it was just him, and the weight of solitude pressed down on his chest.

The rain outside softened into a murmur. He sighed and forced himself to rise from the bed. He had promised himself that today would be different.

Ramanathan dressed in a a crisp white veshti, an old but well-ironed cotton shirt. He stood in front of the mirror, smoothing his thinning white hair, and for a moment, he half-expected Janaki to appear behind him, adjusting the pleats of her sari, playfully nudging him aside.

He shook his head and turned away.

His first stop was the Mylapore market. Janaki loved this place, haggling over vegetables with a stern face, then flashing her warm smile at the vendor while negotiating money. She lived flowers and frequented flower seller Seeta Amma stall, for fresh flowers for their home. 

He walked past the familiar stalls, the scent of fresh coriander and ripe tomatoes filling the air. 

An old vendor, Murugan recognized him from afar and called out.,”Iyer Anna! Long time since I saw you. How is Janaki madam?”

Ramanathan hesitated. “She… passed away.”

The vendor was flabbergasted. “Ayyo, I’m sorry, Anna. She was a good lady. May her soul rest in peace.”

Ramanathan nodded, buying a small bunch of bananas even though he didn’t really need them.

He took the long route home, passing by the temple tank where he and Janaki often sat, watching the pigeons flutter over the water. A few young boys were laughing as they skipped stones across the surface. He lingered for a while, then walked away before more memories could overwhelm him.

The house felt colder than before when he returned. The afternoon stretched out endlessly. He switched on the television but found no interest in the old Carnatic music programs they used to watch together.

Janaki’s absence was everywhere. The faint scent of her sandalwood soap still clung to the air. Her knitting basket sat untouched by the window. He had left everything as it was, afraid that moving anything would erase the last traces of her.

But he couldn’t go on like this. He had to find a way back to life, somehow.

The next day, he forced himself to visit the park near his house. It was filled with morning walkers, elderly couples chatting on benches, young mothers chasing toddlers.

He walked slowly, breathing in the fresh air. A group of elderly men sat under a banyan tree, talking animatedly. He recognized one of them—Krishnan, an old friend from his job at the local bank. Krishnan spotted him too.

“Ramanathan! After so long!” Krishnan called out. “Come, sit.”

He hesitated, then joined them. The conversation was light—politics, cricket, the rising price of everything. For the first time in months, he laughed.

“You should come here every day,” Krishnan said. “No use sitting alone at home. Come, we’ll keep you company.”

Ramanathan nodded. Maybe he would.

A week later, he found himself at the small neighborhood library. Janaki had loved books, always bringing home new ones, reading aloud to him in the evenings. He hadn’t stepped inside since she passed.

The librarian, a middle-aged woman named Meenakshi, greeted him warmly. “Iyer sir, it’s been a long time. How are you?”

“I’m… managing,” he admitted.

“Good to see you back. Shall I find you something to read?”

He nodded. She handed him a book—an old Tamil novel Janaki had once tried to get him to read. He smiled for the first time that day.

Days turned into weeks, and slowly, life took on a new rhythm. He went to the park each morning, had coffee with Krishnan and the others, and spent afternoons at the library. The ache of loss remained, but it no longer suffocated him.

One day, as he sat on his veranda watching the rain, he realized something.

Janaki had promised they would grow old together, and in a way, she had kept that promise. She was still here—in the jasmine plant she had nurtured, in the scent of her books, in the memories that filled their home.

And as the rain continued to fall, for the first time in a long while, he felt a quiet sense of peace overtaking his sadness.