Raindrop Derby
It always begins the same way. Not with thunder or lightning, but with a hesitant gloom.
The kind that creeps in quietly by late July, smudging the sun just enough to make you pause mid-step and say,
“Looks like it’s going to rain.”
Then it does. With conviction.
The world outside blurs into a dance of grey and green, and I, a self-declared expert in time-pass activities,
declare the season of Raindrop Racing open.
No formal invitations needed. Just a windowpane.
Preferably a wide one. The kind that gets freckled with drops within minutes of a downpour.
I pull a chair close, knees up, chin resting lightly, and scout my contestants.
“There. Top left. Third line from the curtain’s shadow. That one’s mine.”
No one answers. They never do. But that’s the charm of it. I talk aloud anyway. It gives the drops character.
The selected drop is long-legged, swift, with the kind of slant that suggests promise.
A few centimeters to its right, another bead appears, bloated and lazy. That’s the competition.
A quiet rivalry forms, steeped in imagined histories and unspoken grudges.
The race begins.
They don’t always move. Some stay stubbornly still, as though resisting gravity out of spite.
Others begin sliding instantly, almost eager to win. Mine hesitates.
I mutter encouragements under my breath, softly,
as though I might spook it with loud thoughts.
“Come on, you’ve trained for this.”
The rival gains ground, curving in a perfect arc. Mine follows soon after, shaky at first,
but picking up pace when another droplet joins in — a random spectator-turned-teammate.
The track changes. New alliances form. Rivalries get murky.
There is no finish line. Only the bottom edge of the glass where they disappear forever.
And still, my chest tightens with anticipation.
No screen could simulate this thrill. No app offers drops with such dignity,
such unpredictable momentum.
I lean in closer. My breath fogs the pane. For a moment, I forget the warnings.
Those old wives’ tales of lightning bolts chasing children too close to windows.
I used to run to the sill barefoot, placing bets on invisible horses, whispering names into the glass.
Now, I hover a few inches back, old fears wrapping themselves around the spine of newer joys.
Funny, how the mind stores storms differently with age.
I never played in the rain, not really. A sneeze was enough to lock me indoors.
I would watch other kids drench themselves in wild rebellion, arms open, mouths wide,
as if trying to drink the sky.
I stayed inside, guarding my windows like a gatekeeper of stories,
finding joy in droplets that didn’t judge me for watching.
Today, it’s the same. No wet clothes. No reckless dancing.
Just me, a chair, and a handful of overachieving raindrops.
I lean back, the race over, my drop having lost spectacularly.
“Next time,” I say, picking a new contestant, “we train harder.”
Outside, the world smells like wet earth and soggy bougainvillea.
Inside, it smells like pakoras that no one made and chai that exists only in my imagination.
Still, the warmth is real. As is the quiet thud of rain on glass.
A rhythm that needs no background music. A monsoon melody that turns loneliness into ritual.
In this sport of streaks and silence, there are no trophies.
Only the joy of watching tiny specks outrun each other on a slope of glass,
pretending — like me — that the stakes are high.
Because sometimes, in a world that moves too quickly,
what you need isn’t a goal.
Just a raindrop to root for.
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