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SushilвЂ™s home taught Mukul how to blend in with her loneliness. Twelve years ago she was swept away from her loving home in Mumbai. MukulвЂ™s marriage with Sushil, the promising engineer, brought her into the Boston cul-de-sac. Her name bestowed upon her so lavishly by the dearest person to him, the one closest to her heart-Mukul-her mother. The downpours-yes, that is what her name means. The young girl was again stifled by her grandmaвЂ™s callous queries: вЂњ What do you keep looking out of your window every evening?вЂќ Baarish says nothing.Д«aarish searches for those lovely little pearls pouring down from heaven. CouldnвЂ™t you hear me shout your name so many times?вЂќ Baarish just said вЂњNoвЂќ as if to redefine her quiet, withdrawn nature. I cannot keep climbing fourteen stairs and yell my lungs out just to bring you your cup of milk. Her grandmother kept saying how cruel the scamp was to silently hide behind her bedroom window and not answer her. Her white saree bordered with a neat and conventional green looked more like a country flag to Baarish. Just as she was contemplating over her failed muse, her grandmaвЂ™s husky accents barked вЂњBaarish!вЂќ As if, she had been excavating for hours to make some ingenious find. Another day goes by without rain! Without baarish!! When shall her name live up to its fullness, its dreams? Her one dream? To our twelve year old Bostonian, sunset was more than a twilight gloom.

Baarish quietly watched another sun go down and bring darkness into her life.

And a hazy mauve showered Sunset Drive with a painful bliss.