The rain in Meghalaya is not an interruption — it’s a rhythm. It arrives not with urgency but with the patience of something that knows it has months to stay. Roofs learn its percussion, rivers remember their old beds, and the hills wrap themselves in layers of green too rich for a colour chart.
In this season, life slows in ways it refuses to at any other time of the year. Mornings begin with mist pressing gently against the windows, afternoons with tea that tastes warmer than in any other month. You measure your days not by the clock, but by the weight of clouds and the scent of wet earth.
The monsoon teaches you that beauty doesn’t always ask for attention — sometimes it just exists, quietly, waiting for you to notice. It’s a reminder that not everything in life needs to move forward quickly; some things are meant to soak, to root, to stay.
Whenever I watch the rain paint the world outside, I wonder if perhaps it’s not just the hills breathing rain — maybe the rain is breathing life back into us too.
bhaskar saikia 
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