By: Rupesh Ullal Kulapuram

1
I was in Mangalore, a coastal town in Southern India. A vacation I would cherish each time I remembered it, without hesitation.
The town hadn’t changed much over the years, at least not since the Millennium, if I could look at it from the sun’s vantage point. The land baked under the scorching tropical summer, only to be drenched again by the fury of the monsoon.
Rains brought everything they could in their embrace, the smell of the wet Earth, the overflowing serpentine streams on the roadside, and the oily, rainbow-colored grease from garages that floated in the water. Countless chappals splashed through them, creating a chorus of sound and delight.
I was walking on the very same road where I had once walked, holding my father’s hand. My school—St. Gerosa High School—was on this road. Further down stood Roshini Nilaya, a British-era building that also housed the area’s kindergarten.
Nothing had changed.

2
On my first day back in Mangalore, I wanted to visit my favorite stop, a local bookstore. I was eager to buy Holly by Stephen King.
My dad suggested a walk, and since the bookstore was near the local park in Valencia, we set out together. It was a short distance from our house. I held his hand as we walked along the same familiar road. A drizzle began and then stopped, and my dad asked if I had brought his favorite blue umbrella.
“Why the blue umbrella, Dad?” I asked.
He chuckled. “You’ll know soon, son.”
He carried his blue umbrella and handed me a spare, a colorful one that looked like something used by roadside showmen.
As we walked, the drizzle returned.
“Do you remember this rain, son?” he asked.
“Yes, Dad. I remember jumping over the muddy puddles near the pipe, where the garage men washed their hands. Is the pipe still there?”
“Some things have changed in the last 25 years. The pipe isn’t there anymore. They removed it to widen the road.”
I looked at the brick wall of the old automobile garage where the pipe used to be. It was gone.
“C’mon son, we’re rekindling memories. Let’s not start with something that no longer exists,” he said with a laugh.
As we walked further, I saw the same banyan trees lining the road. Their fruits we once crunched while running, their tender shoots we once cut with careless ease. We used to love hearing the pitter-patter of raindrops falling on our tiny umbrellas.
The raindrops were still falling on our umbrellas—the same sweet sound.
“Do you hear them, son? The raindrops.”
“Yes, Dad. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“What do they tell you?”
“They seem to welcome me. They say—‘Welcome home, sonny,’” I replied cheerfully.
“More than that, they enjoy the company. They cherish it, don’t you see?”
“Indeed, how could I miss that?”
Dad paused at Roche Mansion. He looked toward the house. An old man waved at him. My dad gave him a big thumbs-up and walked on.
I waved too, but the man didn’t wave back. I felt silly.
Dad chuckled. “Good old Roche has vision problems. And you’re too old now to be recognized.”

3
We reached the park—a vast space carrying the scent of wet earth, moss, and old wooden benches that had weathered many years. Dad sat down on one of them.
An elderly couple with false teeth smiled at him—he was clearly a regular here. Middle-aged walkers strolled with their obedient dogs. Some jogged past us. A group of young boys and girls shook a gooseberry tree, spraying droplets everywhere as they scrambled to collect the berries. The rain hadn’t dampened anyone’s spirits. It was the same familiar sight.
Dad seemed happy in the company of fellow elders, so I asked for his permission to visit the bookstore.
But when I arrived, I found an electronics showroom. My bookstore was gone, only its gate remained. I was crestfallen.
The security guard told me it had been relocated two years ago, further down the road near Roshini Nilaya, my old kindergarten.
So I walked again. The little boulevard was still there, filled with grasses, ground covers, wildflowers, and perennials. The chicory, butterfly milkweed, and my favorite foxtail barley gleamed with raindrops. Some things never changed with the tide of time.
I found the relocated bookstore. It looked new, run by the late shopkeeper’s son. My book was available, and I bought it. Happiness returned.

4
On my way back, I thought of myself twenty years ago—a boy walking with an Archie comic, turning pages slowly under the rain, holding the umbrella clumsily between neck and shoulder. I smiled at the memory. I had grown wiser now; I wouldn’t risk stepping into cow dung while reading and walking. But I laughed, remembering how often I had done just that—and how my grandparents forgave me, calling it auspicious.
When I returned, Dad was waiting at the park gate. Most of the people had already left.
Then I noticed—my father was speaking to a young man with his little son. The man carried a blue umbrella, and the boy carried a colorful one.
As they left, my father whispered to me, “Did you notice what I wanted to explain?”
“I think I did. That boy reminds me of myself, Dad,” I said.
The father and son walked ahead of us, hand in hand, just like us. Only they walked faster. The rain poured harder, and I realized that one day, that small boy would experience his own time travel, just as I was experiencing mine in this old town.
The road would remain. The rains would return. And always—the memories that the water carries.

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Rupesh is a Sharjah-based fiction author of three books on Amazon. He is also a blogger whose works have been previously published in Reedsy, Kitaab and Story Mirror ezines. He has also been an editor of several community-based newsletters. He was also awarded the Digital Editor’s choice in the Story Mirror Sahitya Awards.