Monsoon. Even the word was so beautiful. She especially loved the ‘soon’ part of the word - as in "Ooh rains! please come soon. There was nothing, more glorious, more magical than watching the rains go pitter-patter down the window, when you have a cup of hot mint tea in one hand, and a fantastic book in the other. When you take breaks from reading, just to gaze outside at the rain. Where you are safe, and warm, within the house, and the rains are falling outside. How each drop falls on the pane, making new friends, creating colonies, falling down. eventually in to the window channels. Each drop forming a trail, some new and some old, ones. Watching these brave drops rushing towards their collective goal, a pool, was in so many ways, cathartic. We each have our purpose, we may separate, form our own path – but some where. Somehow, we all converge to a common point, a common goal.” She shrugged, shook herself of her thoughts, and went back to reading the book. The book, that she was reading was rather interesting, it was, also about the rain, about the monsoon, essentially. And a storm was brewing in it. Just then a loud thunderstorm broke her concentration. She observed the lightning in the sky – separating it in so many quadrants. “I wonder why they say that lightning never strikes in one place, more than once. I am quite sure that is not mathematically possible, a...