Springtime Under the Rain Trees

I met Aparna Mohan again after almost twenty-five years.

It was during an alumni gathering at the College of Engineering, Trivandrum. The same red-oxide corridors. The same rain trees stretch across the sky like patient guardians of memory.

But we were no longer students rushing to labs. We had become parents. Some of us had even become grandparents.

I had known Aparna from those days, not very closely. She was a year junior to me in Electronics Engineering.

We had met during College Day rehearsals, inter-department meetings, and once during a Brains Trust debate where she spoke with surprising confidence.

Back then, she was energetic. Always walking fast. Always holding a file.

Now, her hair carried thin silver lines.

But her eyes were the same.

That evening, after the formal speeches were over, we stepped away from the noisy auditorium and sat on the old stone steps near the Civil block.

The sun was setting behind the Mechanical workshop. The air smelled faintly of dust and summer.

For a few minutes, we just watched the students of the present batch walking past us, laughing loudly, taking selfies, and arguing about projects.

“They don’t know how fast it will go,” she said softly.

I smiled. “None of us knew.”

There was a long pause.

Then she looked at the main building, the tall structure that had seen so many batches come and go.

“Do you remember my College Day speech?” she suddenly asked.

I laughed. “Of course. You forgot one line and blamed the electronics systems for rebooting.”

She laughed too. But her laughter slowly became thoughtful.

“That day,” she said quietly, “I was crying at home in the morning.”

And that was when she began telling me the story.

It was not exactly about love.

It was not about wealth.

It was about one College Day at CET.

And how one missing dress changed everything.

The Aparna of Then

Aparna was then a Third-year Electronics Engineering student.

Not just any student.

She was the Student Coordinator for the College Day function, the biggest event of the year.

Her name was printed in bold letters on the invitation card.

She had to give the welcome address on the main stage.

The Director of Technical Education and the Principal would be there. HODs from every department. Alumni from Gulf countries. Even a senior ISRO scientist was the chief guest.

And of course, students from Mechanical, Civil, Electrical, Architecture… the whole campus.

But if she was honest, there was one person she secretly wanted to impress.

Niranjan.

Final-year Mechanical Engineering.

Captain of the CET basketball team.

Secretary of the famous Brains Trust Club, the intellectual debating and quiz forum of CET.

Tall. Confident. Always surrounded by students.

One of those boys who could score a three-pointer in the evening and quote Einstein the next morning.

Aparna had developed a quiet crush on him.

Once during a tech fest, she had struggled with a projector wire.

“Mechanical students also know electronics,” he had smiled.

“Only when electronics students panic,” she had replied.

They had both laughed.

It was nothing dramatic.

But something soft had begun living inside her.

The Morning of Disaster

Sitting beside me on those same campus steps twenty-five years later, Aparna laughed lightly.

“I thought my life was collapsing because of one kurti,” she said.

That morning, she had barely slept.

Sponsors. Stage decoration. Anchors rehearsing. Printing errors. Flower arrangements. Chief guest confirmation.

Her phone kept ringing.

“Chechi, banner size wrong!”

“Madam, the flower supplier is asking for an advance!”

Her head felt heavy.

And on top of everything, she was waiting for her new kurti.

Pastel blue. Light embroidery. Elegant. Confident.

She had imagined walking onto the stage wearing it.

She had imagined Niranjan in the audience, noticing.

Not staring.

Just noticing.

At 11:30 a.m., she asked her mother again.

“Amma, did the delivery boy come?”

“No, mole.”

At 12:15 p.m., she called the boutique.

“Chetta, is it coming?”

“Small delay, mol. Maybe evening.”

“Evening? The programme is at four!”

She cut the call.

Her chest felt tight.

“It wasn’t the dress, it was that I wanted one thing to be perfect.”

When everything else was chaotic, she wanted control.

She sat on her bed.

Anger. Embarrassment. Fear.

“What if everyone dresses beautifully? What if I look plain? What if… Niranjan thinks I didn’t even try?”

She opened her cupboard helplessly.

Inside lay her old cream cotton salwar with a thin blue border.

The same dress she wore on her first day at CET, when she joined the College.

Memories returned.

The first day she stepped onto the college campus. The tall trees. The red buildings.  Her hands were trembling while speaking her name.

The day she first saw Niranjan on the basketball court, confidently shouting instructions

But she had dreams.

That day, she had no designer clothes

She smiled softly. Her frustration slowly turned into something else.

Sometimes we believe confidence comes from what we wear.

But confidence is stitched from what we have survived.

“Let it be,” she whispered.

She ironed the simple dress herself. Tied her hair neatly. Applied just a little kajal. No heavy makeup.

When she looked in the mirror, she laughed.

She looked like a first-year student again.

Fresh. Simple. Real.

She saw no glamour.

The Evening at CET

Even now, as we sat watching today’s students, Aparna pointed toward the auditorium.

“That’s where I stood shaking,” she said.

By 3:30 p.m., the CET campus was glowing.

Rain trees casting long shadows.

Mechanical boys in blazers.

Civil students are adjusting the lights.

Architecture students debating stage symmetry.

As Aparna walked toward the auditorium,

She walked past a group of juniors.

“Is that Aparna chechi? So simple today,” one girl whispered.

Aparna heard it. Then she straightened her shoulders and walked toward the backstage area.

That was when she noticed him.

Niranjan.

In a crisp white shirt and navy blazer.

He was giving instructions to the juniors about arranging the chairs.

When he noticed her, he paused.

For a brief second, He looked at her and smiled.

“You’re ready?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” she said.

“You look calm.”

“I’m not.”

“You look… different today,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Different means?”

“Like yourself,” he replied simply.

Then he added softly, “You look… like first-year Aparna.”

She blinked. “You remember?”

“I remember people who work hard,” he replied.

Something warm spread inside her chest.

She did not know why, but those words touched her more than any compliment about beauty.

Even now, sitting beside me decades later, Aparna’s voice softened while repeating those words.

“The right words,” she said, “can dress your heart better than silk.”

The Speech

Then her name was announced.

“Now I invite Ms Aparna Mohan, Organising Committee Secretary, to deliver the welcome address.”

Her heart began to beat loudly.

She walked onto the stage.

The lights were bright. The hall was full.

For a moment, she felt small.

Then she remembered the simple cotton dress she was wearing. The first-year girl she once was.

She adjusted the mic. “Good evening, respected DTE, Principal, professors, teachers, parents, alumni and my dear friends…”

Her voice was steady.

She spoke about unity. About memories. About how college is not just about marks, but about becoming human.

She spoke about CET not just as an institution, but as a place where engineers learn to fail and rise.

She spoke about teamwork. About sleepless lab nights. About friendships that outlive semesters.

At one point, she forgot a line. She smiled and said, “Even electronics systems sometimes reboot.”

The audience laughed loudly.

Even the Chief Guest smiled.

She finished with confidence.

The applause was long.

Not formal.

Real.

After the Function

Near the basketball court under yellow campus lights, Niranjan walked toward her with two lime juices.

“One for the Student Coordinator.”

“And one for the Mechanical department spy?”

He laughed.

“You were brilliant.”

“No designer dress,” she teased.

“Didn’t need one.”

They walked slowly near the Civil block.

“I always thought you were confident,” he said.

“I wasn’t,” she replied honestly. “I was just trying.”

He nodded.

“That’s what confidence is.”

Before parting, he added,

“Brains Trust debate next week. You should speak.”

“Invitation or challenge?”

“Both.”

Back to the Present

The evening breeze moved through the rain trees as Aparna finished her story.

Students from the current batch were practising basketball nearby. The sound echoed just like it had twenty-five years ago.

“The kurti came the next day,” she said.

“Did you wear it?”

She shook her head.

“No. I didn’t need it anymore.”

There was silence between us.

Time had moved.

Careers had happened.

Families had grown.

But somewhere inside, that young girl in a simple cotton dress still stood on that stage.

We chase perfection, thinking it will make us visible.

But authenticity is what makes us unforgettable.

Aparna looked once more at the auditorium.

“That day,” she said softly, “I stopped trying to impress people. I started trying to be myself.”

The sun dipped lower.

Students laughed.

And between memory and present, CET stood unchanged, holding both our younger selves and our older reflections within its walls.

Springtime, after all, returns in different forms.

And some lessons bloom only once.