Raining

It started with a single drop.

Just one gentle tap on the windowpane, followed by another. I was seated by the old wooden table in my grandmother’s house, the very place where time seemed to move slower, or perhaps stopped altogether. The air was thick with the scent of earth and nostalgia. Outside, the sky was an ashen grey, rumbling softly with distant thunder. Inside, a silence lingered—one that had been waiting patiently to be broken by the arrival of rain.

There’s something about the rain that reaches deep into the soul, like it knows which memories to stir, which wounds to gently touch, and which forgotten moments to resurrect. That day, as the rain began its soft descent, so did I—into a pool of memories long buried beneath the chaos of modern life.

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The Childhood Monsoon

I remember when I used to run barefoot through the fields behind this house, arms stretched wide, laughing like the clouds were tickling me with each drop. My cousins and I would scream and twirl, our clothes drenched, our feet muddy, and our hearts absolutely weightless. We never feared the cold or the consequences—just joy, raw and unfiltered. The smell of wet soil—petrichor, I would later learn—wasn’t just a scent. It was a feeling. It meant home, it meant life, it meant something new was about to grow.

My grandmother would scold us as we entered the house like a flood, dripping and loud, leaving puddles in every room. But even as she faked anger, her eyes would betray her—crinkling at the corners with warmth. She would dry our hair with the edge of her dupatta, make us hot pakoras, and pour steaming cups of chai we were too young to drink but insisted on having anyway.

Rain, back then, was more than weather. It was a season of love, reunion, mischief, and stories told on verandas wrapped in blankets.

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Rain in the City

Fast forward twenty years. Rain changed.

In the city, rain meant inconvenience. It meant canceled meetings, traffic jams, waterlogged streets, broken umbrellas, and late nights at the office. It meant soggy shoes, power outages, and avoiding eye contact with strangers as we all tried to stay dry beneath narrow bus stops.

I never danced in the city rain. I ran from it. I cursed it.

But I always found myself pausing—just for a second—when the rain would fall against my apartment’s glass windows. Something would tighten in my chest. I’d watch the droplets race down the glass, making tiny rivers, and feel…something. Longing? Regret? I never had time to explore it. I’d turn away, grab my laptop, and get back to being ‘productive.’

But deep down, I knew the rain was trying to talk to me. Whisper to me, like an old friend I hadn’t called in years. I just wasn’t ready to listen.

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The Day It All Changed

It was a Sunday when the city came to a standstill. A storm like no other hit unexpectedly. Trees uprooted. Roads flooded. Power went out for hours. My phone died, and for the first time in years, I was truly… disconnected.

With nothing else to do, I sat by the window. And I watched.

The rain was relentless. It washed the dust off the streets, the noise off the walls, and maybe—just maybe—it tried to wash the burden off my soul. That day, I didn't run. I let it speak.

I sat there for hours, tracing the path of each droplet with my eyes. I thought about my childhood, my grandmother, the innocence that had slowly dissolved into ambition, deadlines, and adulting.

And then, I cried. Not out of sadness—but out of release. I cried for the little girl who used to twirl in the rain. I cried for the woman who forgot how to. I cried because for the first time in forever, I felt alive.

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Reconnecting with the Rain

That moment changed something in me. I started to notice the rain again—not as a problem, but as a presence. I began walking during light drizzles, without an umbrella, letting it kiss my skin. I watched how people reacted to it—some annoyed, some indifferent, and a few, like me, quietly grateful.

I started writing again. Little poems, thoughts, diary entries—all inspired by the rain. It became a muse. A metaphor. A reminder.

And when I finally returned to my grandmother’s house after years—on a quiet monsoon afternoon—I realized the rain had never left. It had always been waiting. Waiting to tell me that no matter how far I wandered, I could always come back.

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Rain as a Teacher

Rain taught me patience. That not everything can be controlled or scheduled. That sometimes, delays and detours are just nature’s way of making you pause.

It taught me cleansing. That emotions, like streets, need to be flooded once in a while so the dirt can be washed away.

It taught me presence. That in a world obsessed with productivity and movement, sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is stop, breathe, and listen.

It reminded me of softness. That strength doesn’t always roar—sometimes, it drizzles.

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A Letter to the Rain

If I could write to the rain, I’d say this:

Dear Rain,

Thank you for being more than water from the sky. Thank you for being my childhood friend, my unexpected therapist, my creative spark, and my silent companion.

Thank you for showing up—again and again—reminding me that life isn’t always sunny, and that’s okay. In your grey skies and thunderous moods, I’ve found more clarity than in a thousand clear days.

Keep falling. I’m listening now.

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Final Thoughts

The world moves fast. Too fast. In a constant race for more—more money, more success, more likes—we forget the simple, soul-healing beauty of nature.

Rain doesn’t ask for attention. It doesn’t scream. It just is. Falling quietly. Softly. Patiently.

But for those who take a moment to stop and feel it, it offers something truly priceless: a mirror to our soul, a balm for our wounds, and a melody that sings of everything we’ve forgotten to remember.

So next time it rains, don’t rush indoors. Step outside. Tilt your head back. Close your eyes. Let it fall.

And maybe, just maybe—you’ll hear it too.

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