Dear gentle readers, I'm back with a new blog, and I hope you are doing great.
The scorching heat of summer had been relentless, but finally, the sky took pity on us. A gentle spell of pre-monsoon showers washed over the city, cooling the air and hearts alike. With clouds drifting lazily and a drizzle every now and then, the whole world suddenly felt softer, more romantic.
Rainy days have a rhythm of their own, don’t they? Mine began slowly—just as it should. I stayed in bed a little longer than usual, cradling a hot cup of coffee. From the balcony, I watched the town wake up under a silvery sky. The streets, once dry and dusty, now shimmered in the rain. Stray dogs splashed about, playfully chasing each other and the occasional passerby. The trees looked happier—clean, green, alive.
Of course, the rain had its usual mischief. Drains overflowed, roads turned into shallow rivers, and vendors waded through it all with baskets of vegetables and fish balanced on their heads. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the soulful whistle of a train departing the nearest station—an oddly comforting sound.
After a refreshing bath, I sat quietly for a few moments of prayer, just to say thank you for everything, even the little joys. With a lighter heart, I moved on to some long-postponed chores: tidying my room, sorting the wardrobe. Simple things, but they felt good.
Breakfast was a humble plate of fruits, bread, and nuts, enjoyed right back on that balcony. The rain had eased by then, though the clouds were still loitering above. With my feet up and eyes wandering, I watched as cars splashed through puddles and a group of children arrived, football in hand. They didn’t care about the mud—they played with wild delight, reminding me of my own carefree days. It made me a little nostalgic.
Inspired by the cozy weather, I reached for a book I'd been meaning to read: Shesher Kobita—The Last Poem—by Rabindranath Tagore. A classic love story nestled in the quiet mountains of Shillong. I'd bought it at a book fair, but hadn’t found the right moment to start—until now. Tagore’s words swept me away, so much so that I found myself scribbling a few verses of my own. Ah, we Bengalis and our poetry—we can’t help ourselves.
By noon, I’d turned the last page and moved to the kitchen, drawn by the thought of a comforting monsoon lunch: a steaming plate of khichdi, of course. After the meal, I skipped the usual nap and chose to watch a Bengali romantic film instead, complete with soulful songs and a perfect twist.
Evening tiptoed in with another light drizzle. We gathered as a family for casual chatter—one of the day’s most comforting rituals. Later, I tried my hand at cooking a simple curry, which turned out quite well. Cooking has always been a quiet joy for me—a little retreat from the everyday noise.
As the day came to a close, I enjoyed a light dinner and curled up with a book for some bedtime reading. The rain tapped gently on the windows, like a lullaby to end a beautiful, rainy day.
