When Winds Echo in the Rain...

“I knew it was ordained that I should never marry an equal. So, I married shame. It is my shame that has kept me alive. My knowing that I am truly not…”

- Sarah Woodruff, The French Lieutenant’s Woman (1981)

So I’m back from office.

A particularly inconsequential day. One of those that underline your irrelevance in the grand scheme of things. Not tragic, not eventful, just... grey. You know the kind. The sort that makes you wonder if anyone would notice if you quietly folded into the wallpaper.

Usually, I’d just hit the bottle. Let the fog roll in. Drift away.

But not tonight.

Tonight I didn’t want to drift. I didn’t want fog. I wanted clarity, of a specific kind. The kind that hurts a little. The kind that touches a nerve you’ve long made peace with ignoring.

Some aches, when you get over them, leave behind nothing but a vacuum.

And sometimes, that vacuum is far more terrifying than the ache itself.

Wife was out somewhere. Party, friends, I didn’t ask. Kid was out too, finished with exams, celebrating the sweet freedom of teenage evenings.

So, I was alone.

Amazon Prime was doing its usual pushy recommendations, and up popped The French Lieutenant’s Woman. Meryl Streep on the poster. I hadn’t read the book. Knew next to nothing about the movie. But the name had that echo, the kind that tells you it might hurt just right.

I hit play.

I didn’t expect it to take me right back to Clara.

To Thoovanathumbikal.

To the rain. The music. The ache.

There’s something eerily parallel about The French Lieutenant’s Woman and Thoovanathumbikal, though they emerge from different worlds. One’s a postmodern British drama wrapped in Victorian restraint. The other, a lush Malayalam film soaked in rain, longing, and haunting silence.

But at their heart, both stories circle the same storm;

A man meets a woman he cannot quite understand.

And never quite gets over.

Clara and Sarah. Two women, one storm.

Clara, the elusive escort with a name you dare not forget.

Sarah, the 'fallen woman' who walks the windblown coast like a ghost haunting her own choices.

They are both mysterious, and yet not mystical. Both tragic, but never seeking sympathy. The kind of woman men remember more than they ever possess. Neither of them fits into the polite boxes society offers. And that refusal to be understood? That is precisely what makes them unforgettable.

Both Jayakrishnan and Charles begin as men of their world. Men who believe they understand love, women, consequences. But then comes Clara. Then comes Sarah. And everything shifts. Both men meet women who can’t be contained.

Jayakrishnan, with his carefully curated double life, is dismantled not by scandal, but by sincerity.

Charles, the man of science, progress, and Victorian decency, finds himself chasing an irrational ache across England.

They don’t save these women.

They don’t even understand them.

But they’re changed. Bent. Unmoored.

And isn’t that what love sometimes is?

Not an arrival. But a fracture.

Not a story of togetherness, but of the scar it leaves behind.

In Thoovanathumbikal, the rain doesn’t just fall.

It announces Clara.

It clings to Jayakrishnan like a perfume of regret.

It seeps into the music, the memory, the mood.

In The French Lieutenant’s Woman, it’s the wind, the cliff, the sea spray.

Nature doesn’t offer comfort. It offers contrast. An elemental force against which human frailty looks small, exposed.

Both stories know this;

Sometimes, it’s not about love fulfilled.

It’s about love remembered.

And how it ruins you, gently.

I didn’t expect to feel this much.

Didn’t expect a British film to bring me back to a Malayalam classic.

Didn’t expect Clara to show up in Lyme, through Sarah’s silhouette.

Didn’t expect the rain at the end.

But it did rain.

And I did feel seen, oddly enough, by two women who existed in two languages I speak, sometimes simultaneously, their cadences overlapping like shared memories of rain and wind that never quite leave, echoing each other across the ache. That night, on my couch, nursing a dry throat and a full ache.

I wasn’t drifting anymore.

I was anchored. In longing.

"Evidunno vannu engoto poya oru penkutti. Njangal thammil evideyo vachu bandhikkapettavaranannu enikku verute thonuka... eto janmathil..."

- Jayakrishnan, Thoovanathumbikal (1987)

Five Pages Apart

She’d been away on a short work trip. Two days, maybe less. But the office had felt hollow without her. No light laugh drifting over the cubicle wall. No gentle footsteps. The place had all the charm of an unplugged fan.

On day two, I caved. Found some half-baked reason to message her.
She replied hours later. Made sense, she was on a client visit. Probably swamped. Besides, it’s not like we’re close. Far from it. Across nearly twenty years being colleagues, we wouldn’t even scrape together five full pages of conversation. And I’m counting the work emails. That’s the distance.

And yet.

She’s something. A presence. A light. A soft glimmer. A strange warmth I look forward to in the dull corridors of office life. Not because there’s a story waiting to happen, there isn’t. Nothing’s going to happen, and I’m not hoping it ever will. Not because there’s anything to be pursued. That path isn’t for walking. Not by me. Not now. But just knowing that such a path exists, somewhere out there in theory, holds a quiet kind of comfort. The kind you don’t question too closely. A warm lie I let myself keep.
But that’s not really the point.

She was back today.
She pinged me about some pending task.
I brushed it aside. Texted a teasing line instead;
So, what did you get me?

She laughed.
That laugh... it did something to the room. That alone felt like a win.

But then she said it.
Something casual. Simple. Offhand.
Didn’t even think of bringing anything.

That’s all. Just that.
Didn’t cross her mind.
That landed harder than it should have.
And something in me cracked.
It broke me. Shattered me, actually.

Not because I expected a gift. Of course not. Even in my most delusional moments, I wouldn’t have dreamed that. Not even because she forgot me while she was away. Why would she remember me? Never expected to occupy that much space in her day. That part never did hurt. That’s not the wound.

But the way she said it, light, casual, utterly unthinking. That’s what undid me. Like I’d never existed in that little span of time, not in any space of hers. Like I don’t live anywhere in her mind. Because in that moment, the truth was unmistakable. In the vast landscape of her thoughts, I don’t even register. And that stung. Not because I matter. But because I clearly, absolutely don’t.

That theoretical road I sometimes glanced toward, that road I never meant to walk? It wasn’t just closed. It'd vanished. No signage now, not even a mirage. Just empty air.

And that’s how it ends. That’s it.
No drama. No headlines. No great tragedy.
Just a crumbly little truth, collapsing quietly in a corner of the day.
Just a flicker extinguished. One more quiet reminder, that some of us are simply background noise.

Nothing Changed. And That Changes Everything.

 

It’s always this woman or that, isn’t it?

Not because I’m any kind of womaniser. Far from it. But as with all men, women remain the greatest of mysteries. And I do like a good puzzle. Especially when nothing is at stake.

We met online. I don’t remember where or when exactly. Maybe a flirtatious thread on Twitter (back when it was still Twitter), or a comments section somewhere I’ve long forgotten. We chatted, debated, agreed, disagreed. I won a few. Lost many. Over time, I gained more insight from her than I could return. Most of what she said wasn’t particularly new. Familiar laments from the middle-aged, middle-class trenches. But then, occasionally, something would shift. And suddenly we were somewhere else entirely.

Like when she spoke of parenting. Not in the performative, Pinterest-board sense, but how one can nurture a child’s humane core without projecting personal dreams onto their future. And later, even deeper thoughts. On how to raise emotionally healthy kids with a grounded, respectful sense of sexuality. Exotic stuff, really. Stuff I didn’t know I needed to hear.

We shared things. Some dark. Some tender. That fragile shield of online anonymity made it easier to open up. With her, there was no performance. No pause to search for clever metaphors, no reaching for a flourish. Just thought and feeling. I was free. Relaxed. Slightly naked, perhaps. But never ashamed. Because she never made me conscious of my own flaws. That’s rare. That’s precious. That’s unfamiliar in the best kind of way.

We were born a few days apart, which made the intimacy easier. Or justifiable. Maybe.

Soon, the conversations drifted toward fantasies. And yes, it started to feel like a kind of infidelity. But it was only online. Fleeting. Inconsequential.

Until she said she was coming.

That changed everything.

So far, she’d only been a window on a touchscreen. A soft glow, rich with emotion and meaning, but ultimately, 2D. Now? Now there was movement. Now it could go anywhere.

Saturday night. Bangalore was in full swing. The beat, the buzz, the curated chaos of a city pretending it doesn’t care. I used to be part of that race, until I realised (or was made to realise, mercilessly) that the winner still ends up a rat. I thought I’d bowed out for good. And yet, here I was again. No plan. Just that stupid, hopeful flutter.

Xero Degrees wasn’t crowded. We found a nook. Cozy, private. She bubbled. Fizzed. Sizzled. I melted. Into her eyes, her voice, her mind. Her story came in glimpses. Whatever she felt like sharing with a man she thought was mildly interesting.

And what a story it was. Not glamorous. Not rags to riches. But real. Full of pain, little melodrama, and a quiet resilience that refused to go away. No superhero narrative here. Just an honest woman who kept falling and getting up, weaker maybe, but wiser. Her strength wasn’t in the show of it. But in the knowing. In the hard-earned understanding of how fragile and raw the human mind truly is.

It unnerved me.

In front of her, I was bare. Just a man. With all the usual manly failings. And yet, she didn’t flinch. She saw through everything and still stayed. And somehow, she chose to notice the little good that remained in me, the bits I didn’t know were still there. How kind of her. How powerful.

I gave in to that smile. Folded myself into her arms. She held me, for as long as she could.

Then we parted.

It ended abruptly. The kitchen was closing. The clock reminded us what world we lived in. Nobody escapes time.

So it ended.

Nothing changed.

She’s still strong. Only stronger.
And I’m still broken. More broken than ever.

The Race That Wasn’t

 June 6 | Appolo 10K Run, Bangalore

Some Sundays humble you more than others.

For months, my son and I had been looking forward to the Appolo 10K run. A father-son race day, booked well in advance. He’d do the 5K. I’d huff and puff through the 10K. Maybe both of us would come home with medals, but even without them, we were in this together. That was the real win.

Except, of course, plans rarely respect sentiment.

Velokofi, the cycling club I hold dear, was celebrating their 5th anniversary with a ride up Nandi Hills. June 6th. Same day. I was torn. Like a man choosing between two lovers. One, a 10K run on NICE. The other, Nandi, the hill that gives and takes in equal measure.

Honestly, I was leaning ride-ward. Velokofi has given me too much to ignore. The 10K run, more a personal milestone. But not for kid. For him, this was the race. He had form, he had past glory. Podium at Kaveri Trail, even when underage. And more importantly, he had something I couldn’t shake: belief.

Thankfully, the CM’s entourage came to my rescue. Nandi got shut down for the week. (Cyclists and secret lovers grumbled, but I quietly thanked political unpredictability for this rare gift of clarity.) So, back to the run it was.

We woke up at a time most would mistake for last night. Long drive to the venue. Halfway there, the boy went quiet. Then, a whimper of guilt: "I forgot my Garmin."

The grief was real. A runner without a Garmin is like a singer without a mic.
You can still perform, but who will believe you did?

“Let it go,” I said. “We’ll Insta it. NEB’s got photographers. Pro pics, no pixel missed.”

His run was after mine, so he waited. No complaints, no fidgeting. Just quietly rooting for me. And me? I felt worse for it. He deserved better. But this, too, is a runner’s rite. Waiting, stretching, watching others first. It's how we grow, not just strong but patient.

We warmed up together. He corrected my stretches, explained muscle intent with more clarity than YouTube ever managed. I was half-impressed, half-humbled. This boy had grown into a coach while I blinked.

Then came my race. Not my best. I wanted a sub-50. I got 50:31. Close, but not story-worthy.

His turn. I cheered across the barricade. He didn’t hear. MC, drums, crowd.
His eyes were laser-focused. I’ve seen that look before. He was already running, even before the horn.

I waited at the finish line. He came through, 8th overall. The youngest in the top ten by far. Surely podium for his category.

But the announcements dragged. 10K awards, age brackets, drummers, sponsors. The sun climbed. Our hope simmered. And then it happened... 
They skipped his name.

It stung. But we took it well. That’s racing. Sometimes the clock loves you. Sometimes it ignores you. There’s always a next time.

We drove back quietly. Rehydrated, refueled. Sunday slipped into lazy TV and snacks. Until late evening, when I remembered, MySamay.
Time to harvest our race-day pictures for Insta glory.

I looked up his bib number. Typed it in.

No result.

Odd.

“Da, what’s your bib number?” I called out.

He rustled through his files. (Yes, we file bibs. Athletic CV, if you will.)

Still nothing.

DNS.

Did Not Start.

Wait, what?

No photos. No timing. No record. Just... nothing.

And then... Clarity, cruel and clean...
He had worn the wrong bib.

A bib from an old race. One he didn’t even attend. NEB Police Run, months ago. The kit had been lying around. He must’ve picked it up in the early-morning daze. I had woken him up too soon. Too eager. Too proud.

And now, this brilliant 5K run, swift, sharp, podium-worthy remains unrecorded.
Not on Garmin. Not on NEB. Not on Strava. Not even on their cameras. Like it never happened.

And yes, in my knee-jerk despair, I had already submitted a scathing NEB feedback form. One-star fury, dripping with misplaced blame. I was halfway through a longer email, ready with photo evidence and righteous rage, when it all unraveled.

I wanted to throw the laptop.

What do you do with a race that didn’t happen?

You grieve.

You rage.

You laugh. (Eventually, hopefully)

Mostly, you ache.

He had run his heart out. And now that memory was ours alone. No medal. No time. Just that moment,... Him, crossing the finish line, breathing hard, looking up, scanning for my face.

I am proud of him. More than words will ever do justice. But how do you express pride in something the world will never see?

You write it.

You remember it.

You hope he remembers the lesson harder than the loss. Attention matters. Discipline matters. Even in the small things. Especially in the small things.

This wasn’t a tragedy. But it was a heartbreak. A small one, with a long echo.

And somewhere, deep in the quiet after, I whispered what I couldn’t shout at the starting line:

You ran well, my boy. You made it count. Even if the world never clapped, I saw you. And I’ll never forget.

And just like that, a good run vanished...
not lost to speed, but to a slip of a bib.
No medal. No time.
Just memory.
Heavy with pride.
And a little too much ache to carry lightly.

Shanku
(a father still clapping, long after the applause has faded)