Rain Check

"I didn't think you'd take it seriously," he said. "It's just a hobby. Who's even going to read it?"

"I will."

It was 3 in the afternoon. Ajay parked his cycle and walked very slowly to the café tucked away in a corner of a quiet, affluent suburb in Bangalore. The sun was hidden behind the clouds and a cool breeze cocooned the neighbourhood.

He took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his wind-tousled hair. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the windowpane of one of those old colonial-style houses and winced. His hair sprang right back up even after a zillion attempts to flatten it.

"Damn," he muttered.

A brown dog with a collar lay by the side of the road, one eye open, watching him pass.

In an hour, he was meeting a girl he'd matched with online. Someone he'd swiped right on a week ago. A stranger, really. Which was somehow worse than if she'd been someone he knew. There was nothing to go on, and everything to get wrong.

Strapped to his back was a blue Wildcraft backpack which contained all the things a young boy of nineteen would carry: headphones, chewing gum, a phone and a half-eaten energy bar.

Ajay was tall, a little over six feet, with a lean, musical frame and wavy hair which, to his mother's chagrin, he liked to wear a little longer than the norm.

"Look at Karthik," she had remarked one day. "He looks so well put together. So decent. He is so studious. Why can't you learn something from him?"

Ajay had rolled his eyes. Karthik was the sort of boy mothers adored. Neatly combed hair. Ironed solid-coloured shirts. Top grades. The kind who probably made his bed every morning without being asked.

Ajay preferred guitars, late-night playlists and figuring things out as he went along.

He played at night, when the world quietened down to the sound of his own breath, after his father's door had closed.

The one time Appa had heard him, he had said nothing. Just turned and gone back inside. Somehow that was worse than if he'd shouted.

He still hadn't figured it out.

Which was probably why he was obsessing over his hair and checking his watch every few minutes.

The café was almost empty. A soft, forgettable sort of song played in the background. He occupied the last table by the huge window that fronted the café.

From there, he could see the quiet street outside. A cyclist pedalled past. An elderly couple walked side by side beneath a canopy of jacaranda trees.

He took his phone from his bag, checked it again for a text, scanned his Instagram for a while, then went back to looking out of the window.

Every few minutes, he glanced up whenever someone approached the entrance.

Then, from a distance, he saw a silhouette he recognised.

The figure drew closer.

Ajay blinked.

Then broke into a grin.

"Aji!"

Beaming, Aji pulled out a chair and sat opposite him.

Dressed in a beautiful mustard-yellow saree and a maroon dotted blouse, with diamond earrings sparkling in her ears, she looked exactly as he remembered her.

Ajay was stupefied to see her here. Maybe she'd chanced upon him while passing through the neighbourhood. One of his uncles had so many friends in Bangalore.

"How are you, Ajay?" she asked gently. "My favourite grandchild."

"There are only two of us," he laughed.

"Which still makes you my favourite."

She reached over and ruffled his hair, undoing the careful work of the morning.

"I like it like this. You look like a footballer."

There was a large family of grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins, everyone woven into the tapestry of the Rao family. Ajay was an only child. The absence of a sibling had never really mattered, but despite being surrounded by so many people, he often felt alone. A little alienated.

Aji had always understood that.

She had been there for as long as he could remember. When Ma and Appa were away at work, it was Aji who filled the spaces in between. She was his little oasis. The first port of call whenever he got into trouble. The one who wiped away his tears, kept his secrets and made his favourite tomato cheese pasta.

If home was a place, then for the longest time, it had been Aji.

She lived in a small town a few hundred kilometres from Bangalore now.

So what was she doing here?

"Have you eaten anything?" she asked, glancing at the lone coffee cooling on the table. "Are you still off carbs?" She clicked her tongue. "You don't need to follow trends, Ajay."

He laughed and said nothing.

"You were always the sensitive one," she went on. "You picked up an injured squirrel one rainy evening and tried to save it by keeping it in a warm shoebox. The squirrel died the next day and you buried it in the backyard. I still remember the tears in your eyes when you laid it in the earth."

Ajay smiled despite himself. Aji must have recounted this tale a million times.

"What are you doing here, Aji?" he asked. "And you're not well. How did you know I was here?"

"I had to come and meet you, Ajay," she said softly.

She looked tired.

"Are you still writing that story? The one you started a few days ago?" She smiled. "I'd like to read it before I head back. Even a rough draft."

"I didn't think you'd take it seriously," he said. "It's just a hobby. Who's even going to read it?"

"I will."

He looked down at the table.

"And don't give up on the guitar. Your father used to play, you know."

Ajay looked up. He didn't know.

"He was very good. He never got the chance." A pause. "Don't let them do the same to you."

They sat together a while longer. She refused to order anything, saying she was tired and wanted to get home and rest as quickly as possible.

His phone buzzed.

A message from her.

Hey Ajay, something has come up. Can we take a rain check on today? I'm really sorry.

Ajay smiled and typed back.

Sure. No worries.

When he looked up, Aji was smiling at him.

He reached across the table and clasped her hand.

"I should go now," she said.

"So soon?"

"I've stayed longer than I should have."

Before he could ask what she meant, she rose from her chair.

"Aji..."

She turned.

"Be kind to yourself, Ajay."

Then she smiled.

The same smile that had followed him through childhood fevers, failed exams, broken friendships and scraped knees.

And then she was gone.

Ajay sat there staring out of the window as the afternoon drifted lazily towards evening.

The café remained quiet.

His phone buzzed.

It was his mother.

"Hi, Ma."

There was silence.

Then he heard her crying.

His stomach tightened.

"Amma?"

"A-Ajay..."

Something in her voice made the world tilt.

"What happened?"

Another silence.

Then:

"It's Aji."

The words seemed to arrive from very far away.

"What about her?"

His mother's sobs grew louder.

"Aji passed away this afternoon."

Ajay laughed nervously.

"What are you talking about? I was just with her."

His mother was crying openly now.

"No," she said softly.

"She passed away an hour before you called."

The walls were closing in.

The soft hum of the café.

Everything.

He breathed in slowly.

Ajay looked across the table.

The chair opposite him sat empty.

The tired eyes.

The way she had said she had stayed longer than she should have.

Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall.

He stared at the empty chair.

At the place where, for one incredulous hour, she had come back to say goodbye.

A tear rolled down his cheek.

For the first time in years, he did not wipe it away.

"Thank you, Aji," he whispered.

The chair remained empty.

He picked up his bag and walked to the door, his cheeks still wet, and stepped outside.

The dog still lay where he had seen it earlier, untroubled. The rain fell in soft sheets.

He waited on the porch for the rain to stop, to go home.