Rainy Season Memories
The first hint of the monsoon isn't the sight of heavy clouds, but the distinct scent of water hitting parched earth. It is an earthy, metallic smell that immediately triggers a wave of nostalgia for my childhood in the province. For months, the rice fields sit brown and brittle under the unforgiving sun, waiting for the sky to break.
Back then, the rain wasn't merely weather; it was a theatrical event. The afternoons grew heavy with humidity until the sky turned a bruised purple. Then, the torrential downpour began. It created a deafening cacophony on our tin roof that made conversation impossible. We would sit in silence, watching the world disappear behind a curtain of gray water, feeling the temperature drop instantly.
In the city today, I often view rain as an inconvenience—a cause of chaotic traffic and wet shoes. But in my memories, the rainy season was a miracle. It was the time when the landscape was rejuvenated overnight, turning a vibrant emerald green. Ponds filled, frogs sang, and life returned. It was a yearly reminder that even the driest seasons are ephemeral, and eventually, the water always returns to heal the land.