bhaskar saikia

It begins without warning—a hush falls across the afternoon, like the sky drawing a long breath. A grey veil lowers itself gently over the world. And then, the first drops. Not loud, not hurried. Just a soft tapping on the roof, the leaves, the skin of still puddles. It’s the kind of rain that doesn’t demand shelter—it invites you to pause.

On days like this, the world retreats into itself. Roads empty. Shops quiet down. The birds go silent. Even thoughts seem to slow their endless turning. I sit by the window, a warm cup between my palms, and I listen—not just to the rain, but to the silence it brings.

Rain is solitude dressed in silver. It gives you permission to withdraw, to be still without guilt. In its rhythm, there’s an ancient memory—of monsoon nights and wet soil, of sitting in old verandas watching drops race each other down rusted railings. There’s something oddly comforting in the idea that the world keeps breathing even when we stop to simply watch.

It’s in these moments that I notice things I usually miss—the way a droplet clings to a leaf-tip, trembling before it lets go. The way the soil drinks in the downpour like a parched soul. The way silence blooms, not as absence, but as presence. Full, round, echoing.

And maybe that’s what rain is really for—not just for the earth, but for us. A gentle washing away. Of urgency. Of noise. Of all the little burdens we forget we’re carrying. Rain doesn’t ask us to fix anything. It simply falls, steady and unbothered, reminding us that surrender can be beautiful too.

I often wonder if the rain knows how many hearts it has comforted without ever saying a word. How many people have stood in its hush and felt a little more whole. A little more here. A little more human.

On rainy days, I find myself drawn to the song My Rain by Robyn Hitchcock. Known for his poetic and surreal songwriting, Hitchcock often blends vivid imagery with introspective themes. Whenever the rain falls and I sit absorbing its beauty, this song reflects the same quiet complexity—and so does my heart.

Today, I did nothing grand. I didn’t solve anything or write pages. But I listened. I breathed. I let the rain fall inside me. And that, perhaps, was enough.