After weeks—no, months—of relentless heat and air thick with exhaustion, the sky finally gave in.
The summer this year felt longer than ever. Each afternoon clung to the skin like a weight, every breath felt borrowed, and every leaf hung from its branch like a silent prayer. Even the wind, when it came, felt angry—dry, impatient, and unsettled. The concrete roads burned underfoot; the rooftops seemed to sigh under the pressure of heat rising like invisible flames.
But nature has its rhythm, and even torment has an end.
And then, one dusky evening, just when we had started believing the clouds had forgotten us, it happened.
A wind came—not warm, not cruel, but carrying the cool breath of distant rains. The scent came before the sound. That sacred, timeless scent of earth meeting water—the first sign of hope.
And soon, like long-awaited music at the end of a sorrowful silence, it began to fall.
The First Rain
In my childhood, on a hot summer holiday
I would wait until the afternoon, after a heavy lunch,
when everyone else had gone to sleep,
It was then, I slowly emerged from my house
and step out onto the veranda.
All around me was complete darkness
instead of the usual shining, burning sun.
Thick black clouds
covered the entire sky,
and a mild but cold breeze began to blow,
with a few drops of water falling from above.
My mother came running to collect
the clothes she had hung out to dry,
and the petrichor that touched my nose
made us forget all the pains in our hearts
Our hearts were filled with the fragrance of the first rain.
As I sit now, writing this with the scent of wet earth still clinging to my skin and memory, I feel grateful. The monsoon reminds us that no matter how unforgiving a season has been, change is inevitable. Relief arrives. Healing begins. Life renews.
Let the rain fall.
Let the skies cry.
Let the earth sing.
And let our hearts, once again, believe.