The Rainproof Man

By Harigandha Singh

Everyone in town knew about Mr. Viren, the quiet man who always wore a long brown coat and carried a black umbrella — even on sunny days.

Kids thought he was strange. Adults thought he was shy.

No one ever saw him talk much. No one knew what he did.

But one thing stood out:

Whenever it rained — no matter how suddenly — Viren was always outside.

He’d step out of his house and walk slowly through the streets, as if the rain was calling him.

People whispered stories:

“Maybe he can only survive in the rain.”

“Maybe he hides something under that coat.”

“Maybe he’s not… human.”

One monsoon evening, a young journalist named Myra moved into the town. She was curious, bold, and very bored. The mysterious “Rainproof Man” was the most interesting thing around.

So she decided to follow him.

The Storm Night

That evening, the clouds cracked open with thunder and heavy rain.

Right on cue, Viren stepped out with his umbrella.

Myra trailed him quietly. The streets were empty, drenched, echoing only the sound of rain hitting the ground.

After a few turns, Viren stopped at the town’s old abandoned railway station.

Myra hid behind a rusted ticket booth.

Viren slowly removed his coat… and for the first time, she could see his shirt beneath it — soaked, patched, and torn.

He placed the umbrella aside.

Then, he simply stood in the rain.

Water streamed over him.

His eyes closed, peaceful.

Suddenly — he spoke.

“I know you’re there,” he said softly.

Myra stepped out, startled.

 “I… I just wanted to know why. Why the rain?”

Viren looked at her, but his expression was gentle.

“My wife loved the rain,” he said. “We used to walk in it every monsoon. She said rain washes away everything — sorrow, mistakes, anger… everything.”

He paused.

“She passed away here. At this station. Waiting for a train to reach me. I was late.”

Myra lowered her gaze.

“So now,” Viren continued, “whenever it rains, I come to be with her. This is the closest I can get.”

The rain seemed quieter now.

After a moment, Myra asked, “Then why the umbrella?”

Viren smiled sadly.

“To keep her safe,” he said.

Myra frowned. “Safe? But she’s—"

Viren pointed to the inside of the umbrella.

A small silver anklet hung there, tied with a thin thread — the kind that breaks if touched roughly.

“My wife hated cold feet,” he said. “Every monsoon, she’d complain about it.”

He let the rain fall on his open palms.

“She waited for me here. I reached ten minutes too late.”

His voice didn’t crack — it was quieter than that.

Flat. Lived-with.

Myra didn’t know what to say.

Viren looked at the anklet again.

“People tell me to move on,” he said. “They think grief is something you walk away from.”

He shook his head very slowly.

“You don’t walk away from certain loves,” he said.

“You just learn to carry them — in ways the world doesn’t notice.”

The rain kept falling — loud, insistent — yet somehow, everything felt muted.

Myra finally understood:

He wasn’t waiting for his wife to return.

He was simply refusing to let the last thing she touched go cold.

By Harigandha Singh