In the village of Paathar, rain was a currency.
Not the timid drizzle that slipped through the mountains, but the kind of rain that made crops stand taller—fat, silver drops that turned dust into emerald. And only one person could summon it: old Bheem, the Rainmaker.
But Bheem was dying.
The Secret in the Jar
His daughter Leela knelt by his cot as he pressed a clay jar into her hands. "The last one," he rasped. Inside swirled a storm in miniature—dark clouds against the terracotta walls, lightning flickering like a trapped firefly.
"Break it when the drought comes," he said. "But remember—rain always takes something in return."
The Bargain
When the fields cracked open like hungry mouths, Leela climbed the sacred hill. She smashed the jar at sunrise.
The sky split.
Rain fell so hard it stung, washing the village clean. But when Leela tried to stand, her feet wouldn’t move. Vines curled around her ankles, sprouting tiny white flowers where her skin met soil.
She laughed as the roots climbed her calves. This was the price: to grow where the rain loved you.
The New Rainmaker
By noon, the villagers found her—half-girl, half-tree, arms outstretched in the downpour. Her hair dripped with monsoon. Her fingertips budded with jasmine.
Now, when the drought comes, they bring offerings to the hill:
- A copper coin for fair winds
- A handful of rice for gentle showers
- A child’s laughter (the rarest payment) for thunderstorms
And Leela, rooted deep in the earth, shakes her blossoming branches in answer.