Monsoon Is Not Just Rain

By Greeva Shah

Morning rain holds the joy

of an upset night—

a soft apology whispered

on rooftops and leaves.

Night rain, though,

carries the sorrow of the inner self,

like a lullaby sung

by clouds that know too much.

They say monsoon brings microbes,

fungus, disease—

but they forget

the cold breeze that kisses skin,

the hot cup of chai

cradled between stories,

the spicy noodles steaming

besides laughter and gossip.

A small family,

gathered like petals in bloom,

watches the downpour

with eyes wide as puddles.

Children dance like peacocks,

sing like birds,

shine like rainbows

in the watery dark.

Paper boats sail

on fleeting rivers,

each drop a drumbeat

of joy and memory.

And somewhere,

a farmer lifts his eyes

to the sky’s promise—

grains will grow,

hope will rise.

The trees shed their dust,

barks gleam like truth

washed clean.

Nature, reborn,

wears her green

like a crown.

Monsoon is not the season.

It is a bundle of joy,

a ritual of renewal,

a celebration of everything

that dares to bloom

after breaking.

By Greeva Shah