Precipitations weave moments, maverick rains of the erstwhile Calcutta for a 1985-born like me hold grudges that are permanent; the smudged eyes of the rainy evening captured in the gullible terraces of Calcutta promised fragile drops of love. I do not recall whether the memories of the rain had any smell- odour, fragrance- what was it I do not have an exact idea. The rain-soaked early Junes were the day when I eagerly awaited my birthday. In one of the poshest localities of the East, our two-room rented flat, shoddy, wooden windows, dampened sills, and my fairytale turret all waited for the monsoon to return with great gusto. There was a school just opposite our building. And during heavy monsoons, mother used to look for the known faces jostling to come out into the rains, rickety children in Duckbag raincoats, carrying sap-green schoolbags, looking furtively yet longingly at the local pickle-seller. Tangy, tasty mango pickle gifted them a toxic delight! The starfruit pickle was almost an enchantment, the children felt. Their faces looked brighter even in the heavy downpour; their school monograms stained with pickle, letters acting supersmart in between. Sometimes, some of their mothers pressed the calling bell of our ground-floor flat (Now I have ceramic and bronze windchimes that dangle in the rain, flirting with the cumulo-nimbus clouds in the distance), in the hope of enjoying a temporary shelter in our drawing-room. They were strangers. But all mothers had an inherent space and language of their own, I saw. A space that is beyond the ticking of the fidgety wallclock!