MY TOWN IN MONSOON

 There’s something deeply poetic about the monsoons in my town.

It wasn’t just about the rain. It was about how the whole town responded to it — slowly, gently, like a sigh after a long summer.

The skies turned soft grey. The red earth smelled alive.

And everything — the rooftops, the verandahs, even the old street dogs — seemed to settle into the rhythm of the rain.

I remember standing by the verandah, watching the  raindrops .

The lanes outside would flood slightly, and children splashed barefoot without a care.

There was laughter, lightning, the smell of wet clothes and warm tea.

Umbrellas bloomed like flowers

on the street.

Vendors covered their stalls in plastic sheets.

Our house felt smaller in the rain — cozier.

The sound of thunder made us huddle closer.

Amma’s evening snacks tasted better when the power went out.

Sometimes, I feel like the rain taught me to feel.

To sit still, to listen deeply, to remember everything — even the smallest puddle or the way my slippers squeaked on the wet floor.

My town in monsoon was so  perfect. 

 

That’s what made it beautiful.

-from Greeshma.