Maq Masi Blog

In the countryside of north-western India, the first rains of the monsoon sweep over the land, stirring an earthy scent that rises like a prayer from the soil. Dark clouds roar, lightning dancing across the sky like a restless spark. The river swells, its muddy waters crashing over both banks, a wild contrast to the parched summer days. Cows and buffaloes flick their tails, sensing the green grass to come, whilst dogs scamper through the mud, their playful season nearing. Birds perch on fences, eyeing fields soon to burst with crops. On porches, neighbours pass around steaming mugs of creamy ginger tea, their laughter blending with the rain’s steady drum, celebrating the season’s arrival.

As the early rains pause, the fields soften, ready for planting. In this moment of calm, Raj’s family seizes the chance to host a wedding, timed so the groom can join the men in the fields, sowing seeds for the harvest ahead. Lanterns sway in the breeze, their golden glow flickering against wet stone walls. The air hums with the scent of marigolds and sizzling fritters, as guests arrive to the tune of a traditional flute. Raj, the groom’s cousin, beams as he greets college friends and professors, his pride as host as bright as the lightning that lit the sky days ago. Among them, Professor Mishra arrives, his beard damp from lingering drizzle, his son and daughter trailing behind. Raj pulls his friend Arjun forward, a tall man with a grin like dawn breaking through clouds. “Meet the Mishra family,” Raj says, clapping Arjun’s shoulder. Arjun’s eyes sweep the group, then stop.

She stands there, her scarf catching the lantern light, dark curls clinging to her skin in the humid air. Meera, Professor Mishra’s daughter, meets his gaze, her eyes deep as the river, alive with a quiet spark. The crowd fades—the clink of glasses, the chatter of aunties, the patter of leftover rain on the roof. Arjun’s heart stumbles, and Meera’s lips part, just for a moment, before she looks away, her fingers twisting her scarf’s edge.

They find each other later, by the river’s edge, where the water roars like a summer storm. Arjun tosses a stone, watching it vanish into the current. “The river’s wild tonight,” he says, his voice low, meant just for her. Meera smiles, brushing a raindrop from her cheek. “It always is after the rains,” she replies, her words soft as rustling leaves. Their glances linger, heavy with a spark neither dares name. In their world, old social traditions—unseen but unyielding—keep them apart. Love is a risk, a whisper too bold to speak. No letters can cross the miles between their towns, no promises can be made.

Then, life pulls them apart. Arjun’s family moves across the ocean to a city of glass and steel. Meera stays, her days woven with the rhythm of the fields—planting, harvesting, breathing the scent of rain-soaked earth. The river flows on, carrying their unspoken words.

Thirty years pass, the seasons turning like pages. Arjun, now fifty, his hair flecked with silver, steps back onto the village’s muddy paths. The air hums with that same earthy scent, the river still roaring under monsoon clouds. Meera, her face lined with time, hears he’s returned. Her heart races as she smooths her worn scarf, her steps hesitant toward a gathering under a mango tree heavy with fruit. Old friends laugh, their voices warm with memories, but when their eyes meet, the years dissolve.

Arjun’s smile, weathered but bright, catches her breath. Meera hides her longing behind a laugh, her voice light as she recalls the wedding. “Remember the lanterns, glowing in the rain?” she says, her fingers trembling, betraying her calm. He nods, his throat tight, seeing the girl by the river, her curls damp with monsoon mist. As the sky glows orange, he slips her his number. “Just to talk,” he murmurs, his voice catching. Meera clutches the paper, her hands unsteady.

Across continents, Arjun dials her number. Meera’s voice, soft and familiar, pulls him back to the river. “Arjun?” she whispers, and the years vanish. They talk—of their grown children, the village’s endless rains, the ginger tea they once shared. Hours melt into nights, Meera on her porch with rain drumming overhead, Arjun by a city window, lights blurring beyond. Their lives bend to these calls, their voices a bridge across time.

One stormy night, deep into their fourth hour, Meera’s voice trembles. “Arjun, what happens to us now?” The question hums through the phone, raw and heavy. Arjun’s breath catches, the city’s hum fading. He sees her by the river, her eyes searching his. “Meera,” he says, pausing, his voice a low rumble, “that’s a question so simple, yet so vast. Even the clouds might stop to think.”

Silence falls, warm and alive. Meera grips the phone, grateful for the apps that connect them. The river still roars, the seasons still turn, and their voices, carried by technology, find each other again. Arjun and Meera, once divided by tradition and distance, are now just a call away, their love rekindled in the glow of a screen.