Monsoon Magic Micro-fiction Contest Voting Round

Let the rain kiss you, let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops, let the rain sing you a lullaby. – Langston Hughes

Our creative writers of IF are extraordinarily talented ones , they can spin magic out of every situation and they have proved themselves here. Just give them the hint and LO! Watch them spin magical monsoon microfictions .
Our dear Authors for the love you have literally rained numerous entries with love and made this a huge success .
The sound of the rain tapping against the windows, petrichor in the air, cold, grey skies: a perfect day to stay bundled up under the covers. Grab your device and a steaming cup of coffee, it’s reading time!

Total entries are 122 spread, over 6 posts
Please Vote for 5 entries

You can not vote for your own entries . All members of IF are welcomed to vote … Please don't edit your votes.Voting starts 28 Jul 2025, ends on 07 Aug 2025 2359 hrs

Entry 1

Fell, Like the Hat

The wind tugged, childlike, and his hat flew - a brown blur caught mid-air between monsoon mist and fate.

He chased it. But halted.

There she stood, beneath a flowering gulmohar, raindrops tracing rivulets down her cheeks.

Her lashes - long, rain-drenched, trembling like unsaid goodbyes. She blinked. So did he.

Not at the absurdity of meeting again after six monsoons, but at how time had paused ... precisely like this ... once before.

When she’d cried, and he hadn’t stopped her. This time, he picked up the hat, walked to her, and whispered,

You still blink like a poem. She smiled. And didn’t run.

Entry 2

Borrowed Shelter

The rain didn’t ask; it just arrived. Like longing, or old music.

She ducked under the sudden umbrella he offered - half wet, wholly stunned.

He held her gently, but firmly. Like he used to, before egos diluted their love.

They walked. Shared silence. And shadows. Around them, the city blurred - monsoon-soft, forgiving.

“Still hate the rain?” he asked. “I hate how much it reminds me of you.”

He smiled. “Maybe I never left.” A droplet slid from her forehead to his shirt.

His arms stayed steady. Love, after all, doesn’t always roar back.

Sometimes, it just walks beside you.

Entry 3

Rain over Thar

It rained. Not drizzled ... rained. And the desert exhaled.

Earthen pots overflowed with sweet stormwater; bangles clinked, feet danced, turmeric flew.

But joy isn’t the only thing rain revives. Old betrayals, like cactus roots, stir under soft mud.

She saw him across the fire - his smile unchanged since that night he chose the throne over her.

A slow thunder growled as gul began to sing.

She tightened the anklets he'd once fastened on her wedding night.

“Tonight...” she whispered, “the rain shall wash more than dust.”

Outside, the sky wept. Inside, revenge took its first damp breath.

Entry 4

Afterflash

She laughed at the absurdity of the power cut - holding half a candle, balancing noodles in a chipped bowl.

Then ... Lightning. A cruel white flare. She froze.

In that blink, a shadow. Human. Close. Too close. Next to her.

Her breath staggered, feet unwilling to confirm what her pulse screamed.

The figure didn’t move. Neither did she. The seconds passed, dragging thunder behind them.

When the lights flickered back, there was nothing. No one. Except a puddle.

And a faint trace of sandalwood. Rain slithered through the window crack.

She remembered. He used to stand exactly there.

Entry 5

Four Paws, One Storm

The thunder rolled in like war drums. He whimpered.

Ears pinned back, tiny body tucked under a blanket that couldn’t hide his fear. But he didn’t look at the lightning. He looked at her. The girl with tear-glazed cheeks, staring numbly into nothing.

The scent of loss hung heavier than petrichor. She hadn’t moved since the call. Another clap. He nudged her hand. Whined softly. She blinked. Once. Twice.

Then finally wrapped him into her arms. “I still have you...” she murmured. He licked her wrist like a promise.

Outside, the storm continued. Inside, something brave survived it.

Entry 6

Eyes in the Deluge

The rain fell like fury ... a primal hymn against silence

She ran, breath hitching, heels splashing into puddles, past lampposts that flickered like half-hearted hope.

Then she saw them. Two eyes - unblinking, luminous, animal or human, she couldn't tell.

Frozen mid-step, soaked and shaking, she met their gaze. Not menace. Not mercy. Just… memory.

Like deja vu with teeth. The eyes blinked, then vanished into shadows the monsoon swallowed whole.

She stood trembling ... unsure if she had seen a ghost… Or the part of herself she’d buried.

The storm howled on. But something within her had awakened

Entry 7

The River’s Secret

Rain had fed the river beyond its brim - now wild, now vengeful. And amidst the current, a box drifted.

Not ordinary .. no no Intricate gold inlay, ancient Sindhi motifs, a clasp shaped like a serpent’s tongue.

Villagers whispered it once held vows. Or sins. No one dared retrieve it. Except her. She waded in, sari clinging, heart pounding. Fingers brushed metal. A jolt.

Visions - A bleeding bride. A stolen heirloom. A betrayed kingdom. The river wanted her to know.

To remember. And she did. When she emerged, the box cradled to her chest ...

It wasn’t just gold she carried. It was truth.

Entry 8.

Unworthy Splash

She had rehearsed answers. Pressed her best shirt. Borrowed confidence. This job - her lifeline.

The city, soaked and snarling, didn’t care. As she crossed the street, a mobike swerved ... and fate laughed.

Splat. Muddy water. Across her resume, her dreams, her soul.

She stood there, soaked not in defeat, but defiance. Walked in anyway.

“Rain got you too?” the interviewer smiled, sleeves damp. They shook hands. Later, over chai, he said,

“I didn’t hire you despite the mess. I hired you because you showed up anyway.” Outside, the skies wept louder.

Inside, she had already bloomed.

Entry 9

After the Window Broke

Thunder cracked the sky in two ... and her reverie with it. The window burst open, flung by wind's fury, and monsoon rain slapped her face. She blinked. Once, then twice. Her daydream dissolved like ink in a storm.

Gone were castles in Tuscany, proposals in Paris, laughter in foreign tongues. She was back. In a one-room flat, paint peeling, kettle cold. But oddly - thankfull. Because sometimes it takes a storm to end illusions.

To rinse off borrowed dreams. She shut the window. Boiled water. And wrote a new story.

This time, it began with thunder. And her.

Entry 10.

Track 11, Seat 42

The train heaved with bodies ..umbrellas clashing, wet shoulders brushing, monsoon chaos at its peak.

She sighed. Another drenched day, another missed auto, another stranger’s elbow in her ribs.

Then ... He offered his seat. “Only if you promise not to thank me” he grinned. She chuckled. And stayed.

They spoke of obscure poetry, shared fried peanuts, laughed at a leaking window.

He hated rains. She loved them. She believed in fate. He mocked it.

But when their fingers brushed at the next curve, silence bloomed.

At her stop, she looked back. He was still smiling. And just like that ...

The storm had given her a story.

Entry 11

Here's a story from my side.

Drenched in red droplets, she looked down at her feet. Those eyes still looking up at her as if they were alive or.... Were they?

Drenched in black mud, he looked from afar. The woman looking down at the road as if she could see herself on the black surface... Or could she?

Drenched in blue ink, a little girl looked down from her window wiping her face with a cloth. A man looking at a wall as if he could see his wife or... Could he?

Suddenly a splutter of raindrops fell on an old woman's face. And everything got wiped out.

Entry 12

The Void

A few drops rest on her shoulder. A moan escapes her lips as her eyes close down to fully bask in the warmth of his body. Ecstasy bubbles on her entire face. Her body shivers as the cold drops start drenching her being, and not just from the outside.

A tingling sensation fills her completely as her fingers move around to interlock with his. The initial movement turns into frantic search which suddenly comes to a halt as the realisation strikes her like lightning. The void he had left starts to deepen as the raindrops hit her body and the last moment of his love refreshes in her mind.

Entry 13

Lost and Found

Once upon a time, there was a little boy wandering through the woods, unbeknownst to his parents. Little footprints left on the muddy path made his heart both happy and afraid. "What if Mummy Papa found me!" A raindrop fell on his little nose, making his heart jump a bit. He looked up, terrified, has it started again? And lo and behold, the rain had started again. He sprinted back to run to his home only to realise he had lost. Suddenly, a hand patted his shoulder, and a calm washed over his entire being. "Thank God! Mummy Papa found me."

Entry 14

Look Out

"Look out. What beautiful weather!" Her fingers interlocked with his; a sigh escaped her lips as she found him staring at the television. She tried moving her fingers, but there was no response.

She slowly removed her fingers, hoping he'd notice, but his eyes refused to move. Her eyes lingered before hope shattered. She looked out of the window at the fresh leaves, and an earthy smell filled her nostrils. The hopelessness vanished but resurfaced when she saw him.

She stormed up to him and stared angrily into his soul. "That's exactly why you didn't deserve to live. You never cared about me." His lifeless eyes still stared ahead.

Entry 15

The Dark Side

Monsoon had finally arrived in her area. She could hear the clouds gurgling, announcing their presence. Barkha had always loved the darker side of rain – lightning, thunder, and storms, unlike the usual elements songs are written about.

Her name was given by parents who loved the romantic side of rain. They thought their child was an extension of themselves, as is the usual thought of parents. But her temperament proved to be exactly the opposite.

"Was this the reason they...?" A tear dropped down her chin. "Why couldn't they love those aspects of us?" She looked up for an answer. The clouds shed another tear in response.

Entry 16

Bubbles

"Is this all there is to it?" Naveen thought as he saw the bubbles forming for a second and bursting like they never existed. There was no other sound except for the heavy rain that he was witnessing. Alone.

Exactly one year ago, she was here, standing with me, looking ahead and enjoying the rain like a small child. Rain never gave him joy. But her innocence did. This rain gave him his biggest blessing. Ashwini. This very rain snatched her from him. "I hate this. The world might enjoy it but for me, it's nothing but pain."

Entry 17

A Withered Leaf

Dear diary

The little leaf you're holding inside is not just a leaf, it's a remembrance. Of love, of longing, of him.

Today, I saw him. Still majestic. Still serene. Still fresh. Like a leaf freshly bathed in rain. He was holding a tiny finger in his hands. His childhood reflection reflects in those eyes that looked lovingly up at him.

He could be ours. But the child belongs to him and another woman.

The rain stopped a while ago and I can see freshly bathed leaves out of my balcony. Looks like this leaf is the only one that has withered away.

~Khizan

Entry 18

"Monsoon!" a bunch of school kids screamed with joy. Vinay looked up, horrified. He immediately picked up his school bag and ran back.

On the way he heard a radio humming barso re megha at a shop but his mind didn't register anything. He slowed down midway as he saw slippery road. That's when he noticed a few little kids making paper boats and giggling with joy.

"Why are you late?" His mother shouted as Vinay reached home, drenched, and threw a mug to him. Vinay started throwing water out of the house while his parents put buckets under the leaking roof. Vinay inadvertently started humming, barso re megha...

Entry 19

Umbrella

This was one of those days. Jyoti was walking with slow, measured steps. The air was unusually cold. "Maybe it rained somewhere," Kriti commented.

"Hmm." Jyoti mumbled, hoping monsoon wouldn't reach here. Not until she reaches home, at least. She had forgotten her umbrella at home. She glanced fearfully at the sky and noticed a few dark clouds gathering ominously. Her heart started beating faster which quickened her steps too.

"It's raining," Kriti extended her hand forward. Jyoti anxiously looked up and then around for some shelter. Suddenly she found an umbrella over her head. She looked at Kriti who only smiled in return.

Entry 20

Will You?

"Please, no class today, Ma'am," students seemed to shout in chorus. Mita looked at them, confused. "It's raining." One of the students pointed towards the window.

Mita smiled and let them go. Their laughter was contagious which made Mita giggle too. She picked up her things and went outside. All memories came rushing back as she watched students enjoying.

All her friends have settled in their lives and are barely in touch. An old song that never touched her soul today did, wo kagaz ki kashti, wo barish ka pani... Only if she could trade her today with her yesterday... will she? She herself had no answer.

Entry 21

Deep Resentment

Urmi was crying inconsolably when she saw her parents laughing at her. This got imprinted in her mind and never faded because their behaviour never changed, whether she was five, fifteen, or twenty-five.

Today, Urmi went to her parents' home to say her last goodbyes. The moment she saw their quiet bodies, a calm washed over her. This is how she wanted to see them, not laughing at her pain. The thought made her want to puke. Suddenly, she noticed a few clouds in the sky. She prayed to God to withhold the clouds until the cremation. She hoped no one would cry for them, not the clouds, not herself.

Entry 22

Love & Hate

"Heavy rain is likely to occur...," the news anchor reported.

"I hate monsoon." Jiya sighed, sitting on the sofa. It was midnight, but sleep was far away. She changed the channel, foolishly thinking it might stop the monsoon. She had always been a solitary person. Perhaps that's why she chose to live in this faraway place.

Suddenly, she heard a thunderclap and rolled her eyes. "Try enjoying what you hate," she was reminded of a familiar voice. She stepped outside and completely drenched herself in minutes.

She returned and stood in front of the mirror, covered in blood. "He was right." A sinister smile appeared on her face.

Entry 23

Raincoat

"Last time I checked, you were still running after girls! How did this happen?" Punit chuckled as he saw his friend's embarrassed face.

Mohit was a heartthrob in college and not just for his face. All round personality, enviable achievements, smiling demeanor, he had everything. No wonder, he ruled over many hearts. This is why when he got engaged to a girl who anyone barely noticed, everyone was shocked.

"Because of this," Mohit pointed towards raining clouds.

"It's always like this. Girls flaunt their wet hair and trap innocent boys like us," Punit sighed dramatically.

"Actually... She was the only one covered in a raincoat," Mohit giggled fondly.

Entry 24

Storm

"what's your favorite season?" The teacher asked.

"Winter." Chikki replied.

"Summer" everyone booed at Riddhi's answer and she pouted, "I can like whatever I want to."

"Monsoon," everyone seemed pleased at Jitu's answer.

"Why is it your favorite? Paperboats?" The teacher took a guess.

Jitu shook his head.

"Rain bath!" Pinki said excitedly. Jitu again shook his head.

They started taking guesses one by one and Jitu kept denying. The class seemed annoyed at one point.

"You don't like it," Kavita simmered.

"I do."

"Then tell us the reason."

"In monsoon, there's thunderstorm and I cannot hear mummy papa fight." Jitu smiled but the colour on teacher's face faded.

Entry 25

In the torrential rain, she noticed two eyes gleaming in the darkness—watching her from under a broken awning.

Her umbrella had flipped inside out. She was soaked, frustrated, and late.

He stepped out, hesitant. “You okay?” Raindrops blurred her vision, but his voice was warm. Familiar.

“Ravi?” she breathed. High school. First crush. Last goodbye. He smiled, holding out a shared umbrella.

They walked side by side, close enough to feel old memories rising.

A breeze took her hat; he caught it, laughing. She looked up—wet lashes, held breath, soft thunder.

Maybe the rain hadn’t ruined her day after all.

Entry 26

The swirling river current tugged at the intricately carved box with gold inlay, spinning it away like a forgotten memory.

Mira gasped, wading in, rain lashing her face. That box had been locked for generations—her grandmother’s final warning still echoing: Never open it, never lose it.

She reached for it. Missed.

Lightning split the sky. The box vanished beneath the current.

The rain stopped—suddenly, unnaturally. The river stilled.

Behind her, a child’s voice whispered, “Thank you for setting me free.”

She turned. No one there. Just the scent of jasmine, and the water slowly rising around her ankles again.

Entry 27

The breeze swept away her hat, and he caught it mid-air, just before it landed in a puddle.

As he handed it back, he paused—long, wet eyelashes framed eyes that shimmered like the rain-slicked streets.

“Thanks,” she smiled, breathless from chasing it.

“Anytime,” he replied, though they’d never met.

The monsoon hummed around them—horns, thunder, distant chai-sellers shouting.

He opened his umbrella, tilting it toward her. “Need a ride to the station?”

She hesitated, then stepped closer.

Strangers a moment ago, but now sharing silence, rain, and a heartbeat.

Sometimes, the monsoon doesn’t wash things away—it brings them to you.

Entry 28

He held her tightly as they walked, sharing the small umbrella, raindrops tapping a rhythm only they seemed to hear.

The city blurred around them—cars honking, puddles splashing, chai steam rising. But inside their bubble of rain and silence, it was just them.

She leaned in. “Do you think we’ll still do this… next year?” He didn’t answer. Just held her closer.

He was leaving tomorrow—new job, new city. No promises.

As they turned the corner, the umbrella tilted, soaking them both. They laughed.

Some goodbyes don’t come with words—just the sound of rain and the feel of someone not letting go.

Entry 29

She was already running late for the interview—heels slipping on slick pavement, resume half-soaked despite the plastic folder.

And then it happened.

A speeding mobike tore past, flinging a wave of muddy water that drenched her from shoulder to shoe.

Her white shirt looked like a crime scene.

She stood frozen, dripping, eyes wide with disbelief.

A guy at the tea stall nearby winced. “Brutal. Want a tissue… or maybe a new life?”

She let out a laugh—half hysteria, half relief.

He walked over, holding an umbrella. “Come on. Coffee first, job second?”

She hesitated, then smiled.

Sometimes, the monsoon doesn’t ruin your day—it redirects it.

Entry 30

The thunderstorm threw open the window, and cold rain splashed her face, shattering her daydream.

She blinked, pulled the blanket tighter, and stared at the empty chair across the room.

It had been his spot—every evening, tea in hand, teasing her about getting lost in thought.

Now, only silence.

Outside, the rain fell hard, drumming against the windows like impatient fingers.

She stood, walked to the sill, and let the rain hit her again—sharp, cleansing.

She smiled faintly. He would’ve called her dramatic.

Maybe she was. But grief comes like monsoon rain—sudden, relentless, and impossible to ignore.

She closed the window, but left it unlocked.

Entry 31

The little dog looked up at his human as thunder rattled the windowpanes.

She flinched, tears tracing paths down her cheeks, just like the rain on glass.

He didn’t understand storms, but he understood sadness.

He pressed against her leg, tail still, eyes wide.

She reached down absently, fingers curling into his fur like it was the only solid thing in the world.

Outside, the monsoon roared. Inside, it was just the two of them—left behind in a house that once held three.

The storm would pass. But for now, he stayed by her side, guarding her heart the way she always guarded his.

Entry 32

Monsoon chaos blurred the station—announcements drowned in thunder, slippers sliding on wet floors, the scent of chai and damp clothes everywhere.

She squeezed into the crowded train, clutching a soaked file.

He moved slightly, offering her space near the window. Silence. Just rain, rattling glass, and breath shared in tight quarters.

She glanced at his book—poetry. He noticed her resume—biotech. Worlds apart. A drop of rain landed on his page. She covered the gap with her scarf.

They smiled, strangers still, but no longer invisible.

Outside, the storm raged. Inside, the pause between two stops felt like something quietly beginning.

Entry 33

In the heart of the parched desert, the first monsoon raindrop hit the cracked earth like a drumbeat.

Villagers cheered, drums rolled, and colors burst into the streets.

After three dry years, the rain returned—and so did they.

Raj and Imtiaz hadn’t spoken since the boundary dispute turned violent.

But now they stood across the festival fire, eyes locked, past blazing brighter than the flames.

Children danced. Women sang. Thunder echoed.

A shared glance. A nod.

Maybe forgiveness could bloom where the rain touched.

But in their pockets, each still held the old map—creased, disputed, and never forgotten.

Monsoon brought life. But it also stirred buried storms.

Entry 34

She froze as the lightning lit up a dark figure standing next to her—tall, silent, drenched.

She hadn’t heard footsteps. The road had been empty.

Thunder growled above. She turned, heart pounding. The figure remained still, face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat.

“Lost?” he asked, voice barely louder than the rain.

She nodded, unsure why. He pointed toward a narrow lane. “This way.”

She stepped forward, then glanced back—he was gone. Just puddles where he’d stood.

She ran.

Later, soaked but safe, she asked the old shopkeeper about the lane.

He frowned. “That alley? It’s been closed since the flood… when the guide died helping someone find their way.”

Entry 35

I tumbled from the monsoon-soaked clouds, landing with a soft plop on a broad green leaf. For a moment, I rested there, listening to the laughter and chatter below. Then a breeze nudged me, and I slid off the edge. Falling straight down onto the glasses of a boy standing under the tree. My arrival left a tiny blur across his glasses. He blinked in surprise, looking up with a sheepish smile. His girlfriend giggled, reaching out to wipe his glasses with her sleeve. As they smiled at each other with warmth, I realized I’d landed in the middle of something sweet. A little moment just for them.

Entry 36

A single lotus bud stood quietly under the soft monsoon rain. Its green outer petals slowly peeling back as the drizzle softened around it. With each gentle drop, the petals unfolded a little more. Revealing soft pink layers underneath. The rain clung to the silky surface. The half-opened bud a splash of colour in the dim light. It didn’t rush. Just opened a little more with every drop. By the time the rain eased, the lotus was fully open. Rays of sunlight broke through the clouds and made the water droplets glisten on the blossom. Fresh and alive after the rain.

Entry 37

They’d been friends for ages. Always finding reasons to linger after school or walk home together. For months they’d stolen glances and shared shy smiles, waiting for the right time. Now they stood close under the heavy monsoon rain. Both soaked through but too caught up in the moment to care. They looked at each other. Without thinking too much, their lips touched. Soft, hesitant then sure. The world around them blurred into the sound of rain. When they finally pulled apart both were smiling. Knowing this first kiss was something special. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs and neither of them would ever forget it.

Entry 38

Children run barefoot into the street as the first monsoon rain set in, shouting and laughing. They splashed through puddles that seemed to come out of nowhere. They jumped from one puddle to the next without a care in the world. Some threw their heads back to catch raindrops on their tongues, others chased each other around in circles. Their clothes were soaked, but that didn't bother anyone. They‘re too busy having fun in the long-awaited rain. For a short time, nothing else mattered but the fun they‘re having together. All the long, hot days are forgotten as they danced through the rain and were just happy to be kids.

Entry 39

A sudden gust tore the scarf from her neck. It fluttered through the heavy monsoon air. He lunged forward just as the first drop of rain fell. He just managed to catch the fabric before it fell into a puddle. Their eyes met and for a moment it seemed as if time stood still. Around them, the rain poured from the leaden sky. The thunder rolled like a distant drum, but all they could feel was the warmth of this moment together. He wrapped the scarf gently around her. His fingers caressed her cheek and she smiled. Standing close to each other and sharing something quietly new.

Entry 40

He held her close to him as they walked huddled under a tiny umbrella while the monsoon rain poured down around them. Every few steps the wind turned the umbrella around so that they had to stop to put it back up. But instead of getting frustrated, they only laughed harder each time. The water soaked their shoes and ran down their arms. But it didn't matter. Every gust of wind, every splash brought them closer together when he desperately tried to shield her from the rain. They realized that sometimes a little chaos is the sweetest way to fall in love and makes a moment unforgettable.

Entry 41
She stood in the dim room, hugging herself. The city lights blurred behind a curtain of monsoon rain. A flash of lightning lit up the glass and for a brief moment she saw a dark figure in the window. Panic surged! Her mind racing with every fear she’d tried to bury: being alone, not being enough. The next flash revealed the truth. It was only her reflection in the rain-streaked window, eyes wide and haunted. She stared at herself, heart pounding. But this time she didn't suppress her feelings. In that moment she decided it was time to face her fears and stop forward. No matter how uncertain the path.

Entry 42

He sat by the window, hands wrapped around a warm mug of chai, watching the rain race down the glass. Usually, he’d be the loudest in the room. Telling stories and making everyone laugh. But tonight, as the monsoon poured outside, he barely said a word. The thunder and the steady drumming of rain seemed to fill the space where his voice used to be. His friends noticed the difference, glancing over with quiet concern, but he just stared out at the storm. The monsoon’s wild energy matched the mess of feelings inside him. So much he wanted to say, but for once, silence felt easier than words.

Entry 43

The monsoon wind brought that familiar tune again, soft and distant. Blending with the steady platter of the rain. He closed his eyes and let the cool drops wash over him. And suddenly he’s back in that tiny kitchen. Her laughter mixed with the thunder outside. The scent of wet earth filled the air. The monsoon always felt like their secret rhythm. Wild and unpredictable. Just like their love. He remembered those rainy nights, dancing barefoot while the world outside drowned in rain. The ache in his chest was sharp but tender. Like the monsoon itself, cleansing and haunting. The music faded away, but the rain holds his memories close.

Entry 44

She folded a paper boat carefully. The soft monsoon drizzle tickled her skin. Setting the boat afloat in a puddle by the roadside, she watched it drift, tiny and fragile. Suddenly, the rain grew heavier and the puddle seemed to swell beneath the boat. The world around her blurred. She felt herself floating, carried by shimmering monsoon waters through misty forests and glowing fireflies. Colours and sounds danced in a magical world where time stood still. Then, a soft breeze ruffled her hair and she blinked. Back on the wet pavement, the paper boat resting quietly in the puddle. She smiled, awakening from her monsoon daydream.

Entry 45

A little girl stood barefoot on the meadow. Her eyes sparkling with excitement. She watched the peacock at the edge of the field. Its feathers spread wide like a colourful fan. As the peacock started to dance, spinning and shaking its beautiful tail, the girl’s heart leaped. She giggled, clapped her hands and twirled around. She felt pure joy bubbling inside her. She believed with all her heart that the peacock’s dance will bring the long-awaited rain When the first raindrops finally fell, her face lit up with a huge smile and she laughed, spinning faster, sure that her wish and the peacocks magic made the rain come.

Entry 46

Dark and heavy clouds drifted over the city skyline. The city disappeared into a diffuse gloom as the rain poured down. It drummed on the rooftops and flooded the neon-lit streets. Nearby stood an old banyan tree. Its branches protected everything underneath. People, stray cats and birds sought its shelter. On its trunk, a mural of Lord Krishna lifting up Govardhan watched over them. A promise of protection. In that moment of the first monsoon rain in the jungles of the city, even the busiest soul paused for a moment. The modern world, caught in the embrace of the monsoon, found a moment of shared peace and joy.

Entry 47

On a moonless, stormy night, a lonely man played his flute near the river. The melody wafted through the air like a whispered secret. The wind died away and drawn by the music, a woman emerged from the shadows. Her eyes reflected the fury of the storm. As the last notes faded away, the woman smiled. With a touch, she turned the surface of the river to silver, and the monsoon clouds opened to reveal a hidden moon. The villagers woke up to find the land lush and the river shining. Little did they know that it was the music that had conjured up the rain and the moonlight.

Entry 48

Every monsoon, Mira sat at her window and watched the rain draw patterns on the glass. Outside, the world shimmered with new possibilities, but her heart clung to an afternoon long gone. She remembered their laughter beneath the heavy clouds, the promises whispered in the warm, humid air. The rain was beautiful, but it could never bring back that lost moment, no matter how sweet his song was. She felt the warmth of his hand in hers again, their laughter, their love. They had dreamed aloud, believing the magic of the monsoon would last forever. Mira smiled through the tears, grateful for the memory, pain and with new hope.

Entry 49

Chapter - Entangle Under the Rain

As rain started to pour, Megha walked hurriedly on the road, covering her head with her hand. She blamed her luck as she was overconfident that today it would not rain despite her mother's persuasion to take an umbrella. Looking forward, she can see her house, but the rain makes it look like a long way. With her head downward and her hand above her head, she walks faster. Suddenly, the rain stopped, but when she looked forward, the rain was still pouring. Feeling confused, she looked upwards and saw an umbrella above her head. Turning around, her eyes met the eyes of the man who was holding the umbrella.

Entry 50

Scars in the Rain

In the torrential rain, Aarohi noticed two eyes gleaming in the darkness—not Tara’s radiant charm, nor Deep’s arrogant perfection, but something… raw. Beastly. Her breath hitched. Beneath the broken streetlamp, stood a figure cloaked in shadow, horns barely visible, pain radiating from his soaked, deformed body.

Deep. But not the Deep who humiliated her.

This one trembled, hiding behind his own reflection.

Aarohi stepped forward, heart warring with hurt. He whispered, “I’ve lost everything… even myself.”
She paused.
Then quietly said, “Not everything.” The rain blurred scars and tears alike. And for the first time, the beast dared to hope love might still find him.

Entry 51

The Quiet Side of the Umbrella

He held her tightly as they walked, sharing the umbrella. The monsoon streets of Mumbai were chaotic, but Tanya’s storm had passed—when Rohan chose betrayal and she chose silence.

Ajit wasn’t her husband. He hadn’t promised her the world—only shade when she’d forgotten the warmth.

She noticed how he tilted the umbrella toward her, letting the rain soak his shoulder.

“You’re getting wet,” she whispered.

He smiled. “You’ve been drenched alone for too long.”

Across the street, hidden in his car, Rohan stared. That same Tanya who once wept for him now smiled—faintly, freely.

She didn’t turn. But Ajit did. And met Rohan’s eyes—quietly victorious.

Entry 52

In Every Birth, Find Me

His breath was warm against her temple as he traced the rim of her ear, murmuring her name like a sacred raag.
“Radhika,” he whispered, “in every birth, find me.”
Her fingers clutched his kurta, hearts beating in rhythm. He leaned in, lips nearly brushing hers—when—

CRASH!
The window banged open. A gust of wind lashed her face with rain. Radhika blinked, gasping, alone in her room.

No ghungroos. No Madhav. Just silence and stormlight.

She touched her lips—still tingling with the ghost of his almost-kiss.

Her heart ached. The dream had ended. But the feeling? The feeling was real. Terrifyingly real.

Entry 53

Monsoon Hearts

Rain fell for the first time in months, drenching St. Xavier’s in scent and shimmer. On the rooftop, Jhanak laughed—arms spread, drenched in monsoon and mischief—while Aniruddh watched, lips curled in a rare smile. For a moment, the world softened.

But under the awning, a group of students whispered. About the queen bee choosing the wallflower. About the bet she’d once laughed over.

Aniruddh’s smile wavered.

She noticed.

Stepping closer, Jhanak gripped his hand tightly, defying the murmurs. “Let them rot in drought,” she said.

And with that, they danced in the rain—rivals outside, but a rebellion of two within.

Entry 54

The Storm That Stayed

She froze as lightning lit up the dark figure beside her—soaked, gaunt, eyeshollow.
Aniruddh Bose.
The man she saved with a letter. The man who left to protect her name.

Now he stood at her door, nine years too late.
Nine years. Nine birthdays. One name.

Her fingers trembled as she signed: Aniruddh.
He didn’t move. Rain blurred her vision—or were those tears?

“I broke you,” he whispered. “But I’ve been breaking ever since.”
Jhanak didn’t speak. She never could.
But her hands moved—ache and forgiveness entwined:
“Then let’s start again.”

He stepped forward. She didn’t stop him. Their lips met—soft, then fierce.
The storm stilled.

Entry 55

It’s raining tonight; the kind that awakens what you thought was buried deep. And there you were again, like a forgotten melody. You were never mine, yet for a fleeting season, you were the rain in my parched summer. I said nothing; ego, fear, and pride stood guard. You didn’t express either. Life moved on, and so did you. But I remained, holding an ache I never learned to name. Maybe it wasn’t love, maybe it was how alive I felt around you. Even now, as the rain taps on my window, I wonder… did you ever feel it too? Or was I always the only one standing in the storm?

Entry 56

They say some touches don’t burn; rather stay. His fingers were gentle and steady as he carefully shaped her guitar nails. “Too long,” he murmured, gently guiding her hand, trimming just enough to let music breathe. The monsoon hummed outside and the windows fogged. She sat still, but something inside trembled. It wasn’t the closeness; it was the restraint. The way his skin brushed hers without claiming. Not a caress, not desire… just an awareness so sharp, it ached. Years passed. But no one ever touched her hands like that again, like she was a song still waiting to be played.

Entry 57

Rain meant joy once. As a schoolgirl, I’d watch from the window, begging Maa to let me soak outside. She never did, instead said I’d fall sick. I dreamed of puddles like seas, where my tiny feet could splash, and school would be my excuse to dive in. Now I wear glasses, avoid the rain, live in a faraway land chasing dreams I once whispered to the sky. No more kichuri, no Maa, no window laughter. Just deadlines, cold nights, and silence. I’m not sad. Just…tired. Of running, of growing, of being so far from that girl who found magic in rain. I hope she’s still somewhere in me.

Entry 58

She watched the rain trace silver veins down the window, silence thick between them.

He nudged the coffee towards her. “You okay?”

She nodded, then quietly asked, “Why does caring always get confused with love?” He looked away. “I don’t know. Maybe because we forget boundaries when hearts feel seen.”

“But I just wanted a friend,” she whispered, “Not promises, not longing glances… just someone who stays without expecting more.”

He didn’t answer right away. Only the rain replied.

“Can’t men just be…friends?” she asked again.

He met her eyes, honest but unsure.

“I wish I could say yes. But maybe it’s harder than we admit.”

Entry 59

Why is it that your silence felt fuller than any words, Mom?

Even now, over the phone, you say, “Eat on time, don’t skip meals and sleep,” with that same soft firmness.

You still give me cooking tips I never cared to learn because you always said, “Just study, dream big, I’ll handle the rest.”

But Mom, now that I’m miles away, I feel lost in this strength you gave me.

Some days, I just miss your kiss.

The time difference makes calls shorter, the loneliness longer.

Why does warmth travel slower than distance?

You still hold me from afar… but Mom, some days, I just want to come home.

Entry 60

Rain poured over the streets of Seoul as Ji-eun rushed, clutching her sketchbook, trying not to slip. Her umbrella flipped in the wind, and just then, someone held theirs over her. She looked up—it was Hyun-woo, the quiet guy from her art class. “You always run without looking?” he asked, smiling softly. They walked together under the shared umbrella, steps syncing without trying. Raindrops tapped like a soft soundtrack, and the city faded around them. At her stop, she turned to thank him, but he was already gone—leaving only his umbrella behind. Her heart skipped. Monsoon magic had just begun.

Entry 61

Rain poured over the streets of Seoul as Ji-eun rushed, clutching her sketchbook, trying not to slip. Her umbrella flipped in the wind, and just then, someone held theirs over her. She looked up—it was Hyun-woo, the quiet guy from her art class. “You always run without looking?” he asked, smiling softly. They walked together under the shared umbrella, steps syncing without trying. Raindrops tapped like a soft soundtrack, and the city faded around them. At her stop, she turned to thank him, but he was already gone—leaving only his umbrella behind. Her heart skipped. Monsoon magic had just begun.

Entry 62

Rain poured over Seoul as Ha-ri stood shivering at the bus stop, her umbrella broken by the wind. Just then, a sleek black car stopped. The window rolled down—it was Min-jun, the rich CEO she had accidentally spilled coffee on last week. “Get in,” he said calmly. She hesitated, then nodded and stepped in. Inside, it was warm. He handed her a towel and said, “You always get caught in storms?” She smiled shyly. “Only special ones.” Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, silence spoke. In that rainy moment, something gentle and new began. It felt just like a scene from a K-drama.

Entry 63

The monsoon poured over Seoul like a dreamy soundtrack, soft piano notes in every raindrop. Ha-eun ran, her heels clicking on the wet ground, her umbrella flipping inside out. She hurried into a convenience store, breathless—and there he was. Ji-hoon, her ex, the one who disappeared after their sad goodbye on the rooftop. Rain dripped from his hair, and his eyes looked surprised. “Still don’t like storms?” he asked, holding out a warm coffee. She took it, their fingers touching. Outside, thunder rumbled like applause. Inside, the air felt heavy—not just from the rain, but from things they didn’t say. Monsoon magic, K-drama style.
Entry 64

She froze as the lightning lit up a dark figure standing next to her. Just moments ago, she had been alone on the hill, letting her sister’s ashes fly into the wind. Now—someone stood there. A long coat, boots, something shiny at his side. Her breath stopped. Another flash—he hadn’t moved, but his eyes looked strange, like he knew her. “You came,” he said quietly. She stepped back. “Who are you?” she asked. The sky lit up again—but he was gone. Just wind and rain. Then she looked down. In her hand was her sister’s locket. She hadn’t brought it.

Entry 65

Monsoon chaos brings strangers from opposite worlds closer, find unexpected connection in the crowded train. She was elegance—heels, silk scarf, phone buzzing with deadlines. He was earth—mud-streaked boots, paint-stained fingers, sketchpad tucked under his arm. Rain lashed against the train’s windows as they stood shoulder to shoulder, swaying with each stop. A jolt. Her umbrella slipped; he caught it. She smiled, flustered. He sketched silently, then turned the pad—her portrait, eyes lifted in wonder. “Keep it,” he said. Their stations were different. Their lives even more so. But that brief ride etched something lasting—proof that even storms can spark quiet magic.

Entry 66

little dog looked up at his human as thunder rattled the windowpanes, his tiny body trembling. She paused mid-sentence on her laptop, met his wide, pleading eyes, and without a word, scooped him into her arms. “Come here, brave boy,” His heartbeat, frantic at first, began to slow against her chest. Outside, lightning split the sky, but inside, her embrace was steady, Her fingers moved slowly through his fur, steady as a lullaby. The thunder cracked again—louder this time—but wrapped in her arms, he didn’t flinch. Fear still echoed, but love now spoke louder. He was safe. He had found his shelter.
Entry 67
The thunderstorm threw open the window, and rain splashed on her face, shattering her daydream. She blinked, heart racing, pulled from the memory of his last goodbye—the umbrella, the promise, the kiss that never landed. The cold droplets streaked down her cheeks like the tears she hadn’t let fall. Across the street, a dark shadow paused under the flickering lamplight—tall, familiar, hesitant. Her breath caught. Was it him? Another flash of lightning—and he was gone. Just a shadow, or fate teasing her again? She closed the window slowly, the echo of the storm whispering truths she wasn’t ready to face.

Entry 68

She dashed down the sidewalk, clutching her folder, heart pounding—already five minutes late for the interview that could change her life. Just as she neared the gate, a motorbike sped past, splashing muddy water all over her crisp white shirt and carefully printed résumé.

Stunned, she stood still, drenched and defeated.

But then, from inside the building, a man rushed out with tissues and a bottle of water. “Are you here for the 10:30?” he asked, smiling. She nodded, heart sinking.

“I’m the interviewer. Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

Sometimes, a splash of bad luck brings you face-to-face with unexpected kindness.

Entry 69

He held her tightly as they walked, sharing the umbrella while the rain danced around them like a quiet symphony. Seoul’s streets shimmered beneath their feet, lantern lights flickering in puddles. Her head rested against his shoulder, eyes closed, as if trying to memorize the rhythm of his steps. They had no destination—just borrowed time and unspoken words. The umbrella tilted, barely shielding them, but neither cared. Every raindrop was a memory, every silence a confession. Tomorrow, he’d return to duty, and she’d go back to pretending. But tonight, under one umbrella and a thousand stars, they let themselves believe in forever.

Entry 70

The breeze flew away the hat, and he noticed her long wet eyelashes fringing her beautiful eyes, shimmering under the soft drizzle. They had run into each other on the Han River bridge, both chasing different pasts. Her hat sailed into the wind, but his gaze stayed on her—breath caught, time paused. She blinked, embarrassed, brushing her damp hair aside. “I didn’t mean to bump into you,” she murmured. “I’m glad you did,” he said, handing her the scarf she’d dropped. Somewhere behind them, the world moved on. But under that cloudy Seoul sky, something quiet and beautiful had just begun.

Entry 71

The swirling river current was carrying away an intricately carved box with gold inlay work, a relic from another lifetime. glinting like a secret in the sunlit water. Mira stood frozen on the banks, her fingers still wet from trying to grasp it. Inside were her mother’s ashes, wrapped in silk, along with a locket and a note she’d never dared to read. The current tugged it from her hands, as if the river itself had chosen release. No rituals, no crowd—just water, sky, and silence. A tear slid down her cheek, not of sorrow, but peace. Sometimes, farewell isn’t spoken. It drifts gently downstream, unburdened.
Entry 72
In the torrential rain, she noticed two eyes gleaming in the darkness—unblinking, fiercely, and too still to be human. Her heart pounded louder than the thunder above. She stood frozen on the deserted road, clutching her soaked raincoat tighter. A low growl rumbled through the wind. Just as she turned to run, the eyes moved—slow, deliberate. Then a flash of lightning lit the scene: a dog, drenched and shivering, chained to a post. Relief flooded her chest. She approached slowly, knelt beside it, and whispered, “You’re not alone anymore.” The dog wagged its tail. Two lost souls, protecting each other from the storm.

Entry 73
The sound of the rain was like a gentle sigh, a release after a long day of sunshine. Travelling on the roads were a sweet couple who were returning from their journey of joy. Although the crestfallen atmosphere was a reflection of the sudden strain in their relationship due to the tiff that took place beforehand. The girl stepped out of the vehicle and embraced the rain that showered upon her. The girl started to dance in a joyful manner which caught the eye of her partner who admired her gracefully. He smiled softly and accompanied her. Together they embraced all their woes and danced till the sun set..

Entry 74

The stress pounded him like a dagger. His mind was going berserk as the past kept polluting his brain with all the bad memories. He could not take it anymore and stormed out in anger. Suddenly, he was greeted with a shower of rainfall which seemed to have washed all the stress away. He embraced the rain like a carefree child and smiled as he felt in peace at last. His lady love was surprised to see this new form of him. He glared back at her and invited her to accompany him in making the most of this mesmerising monsoon. Together they shared a graceful dance..

Entry 75

The bright moon shone amongst the pitch black sky. Beneath it were two individuals learning dance. It was a warm summers day so they were taking pleasure in the outdoors. Suddenly, it started raining and within seconds everyone became drenched. However, this didn’t foil the dance practice as it encouraged the individuals even more to make the most of this moment by dancing in this beautiful monsoon. The radio started to play Kuch Kuch Hota Hai which lightened the atmosphere and the couple embraced each other to dance together.

Entry 76

The Way You Rained on Me

The train swayed, rain kissing the windows like a love letter. Armaan stood still—until her laughter floated through the storm. Ridhima. A stranger, yet familiar, like a song he’d forgotten.

She brushed past him, eyes meeting his with the gentleness of thunder held back.

“Rain makes the world softer,” she whispered.

“Or maybe just you,” he breathed.

Their hands touched—accidentally, deliberately. Time blurred. So did reason.

Around them, chaos reigned. Inside them, silence bloomed.

A heartbeat. A breath. A universe rewritten. No past. No future.

Just her in his rain-soaked world.

And him, falling—slowly, sweetly—into a monsoon he never wanted to end.

Entry 77

Monsoon Guest

The first drops kissed the window. She moved without thinking — two plates, two cups, one slightly chipped. A quiet ritual.
They’d been seven when the flood took him. One moment holding hands in the street, the next — her fingers empty.
No one spoke of it anymore.
But each monsoon, the house felt fuller. The lights flickered just once. The curtains swayed, though no wind passed.
Most would call her mad. Maybe they’re right.
But if the storm grows wild enough, she still hears it — faint, familiar —
“Di!”
Some absences never leave. Especially the ones that still knock, once a year, with the rain.

Entry 78

Monsoon Muse

Coffee steamed in her Shinchan mug, untouched beside the laptop.
Deadlines loomed; the editor would knock soon. Her head heavy from trying too hard.

On the balcony swing, city chaos buzzed—whistles, honks, the pressure of mid-afternoon.

Then came laughter. Giddy, unfiltered.
Children splashed through puddles, shrieking in the downpour.
One muddy boy tugged his mother to join, just like she used to.

Forgotten memories stirred—soaked uniforms, fretting mothers, giggling partners in crime.
A smile cracked open. So did her laptop. Fingers hovered over the keyboard as she keyed in the title of her latest inspiration:

As long as the inner child is alive, childhood isn’t dead.

Entry 79

Rain Rituals

At the bus stop, rain drummed gently on the tin roof. Across the street, a pakora stall sizzled to life, filling the air with spice and memory. Her mother had always made them for the season’s first rain, while her father who hated fried food, devoured them with a joy she never understood. Perhaps it was never about food.
Now both were gone, yet in that scent, they felt near again.
The school bus arrived. Her child ran into her arms, muddy and laughing, tugging her toward the stall. She didn’t resist.
As long as love lives on in small rituals, those we’ve lost never truly leave.

Entry 80

Shared Shelter

They hadn’t exchanged more than shy smiles since he moved in — stolen glances from their balconies and the occasional brush of silence in hallway. Nothing more.
Until today.
She stood stranded near the corner shop, caught without an umbrella. The rain poured, relentless. Then he appeared — calm and kind.
“Shall we?” he asked, lifting his umbrella slightly.
At her doorstep, just as he turned to leave, she surprised herself. “Would you… join me for tea and pakoras?”
He nodded. She stepped inside, shy but triumphant.
If the thunder hadn’t been so loud, she might’ve heard his heart burst with joy.

Entry 81

Home

The interview had gone badly. Again.He walked back through the downpour, resume damp, spirit heavier.
The city felt too fast, too polished — nothing like the quiet village he’d left.

Then, near the corner shop, he saw her — his sweet neighbour, stranded without an umbrella.He almost turned away. But then she looked up. And smiled.

Moments later, they walked beneath his umbrella, the silence between them gentle, not awkward.

At her doorstep, just as he turned to leave, she asked if he’d like to come in for tea and pakoras.

His tired heart stirred awake.And just like that — the city didn’t feel cold anymore.Because she felt like home.

Entry 82

When Rain Reaches Home

The village danced with joy — parched soil sighed with relief, birds chirped in chorus, and the fields swayed to the rhythm of approaching rain.

But one heart didn’t join in.

A mother stood still on the veranda, mind adrift in the city where her son now lived. Was he eating well? Did he find kindness in the crowd?

She turned to gather drying clothes when the familiar trinket of the postman’s cycle reached her ears.

A letter. Her son was fine. She smiled through damp lashes.As the sky thundered and the winds howled, her heart — for the first time in days — quieted.

Entry 83

The Last Delivery

The wind howled louder as the old postman pedalled harder, determined to finish his rounds before the storm broke. Letters were rare now — messages shrunk into screens, his route growing shorter each season. Today, he carried just one. The last one of his career. He handed it to the expecting mother on the edge of village. Her face lit up like the first rain, and something in him stirred. Three decades of memories flooded back — love confessions, condolences, wedding invites, exam results. He cycled home slowly, heart full. His job was vanishing, yes — but what a privilege it had been, to deliver people their moments. Behind him the rain began .

Entry 84

They were racing back home, hand in hand, giggling as rain soaked through their uniforms.
The water was rising — ankle-deep, then knee-deep — but they thought it was still a game. Thunder cracked. A gust howled. She turned to shout something, but his fingers slipped from hers.

Just like that. One moment of laughter. One blink too long.And the street was empty.

They searched for days. His schoolbag was found near the riverbend. Nothing else.

Now, each monsoon brings the same ache — a phantom tug at her hand, a name caught in the wind.

Some say he drowned. But she knows better. He’s just taking the long way home.

Entry 85

Water was everywhere.
Their house was now just a distant memory—walls crumbled, toys floating, Ma’s bangles buried in the sludge.

Baba held her hand tight as they trudged toward higher ground, soaked and silent.

Then she saw it . a shivering puppy tangled in a plastic bag, eyes wide like hers.

"Can we keep him?" she whispered.

Baba looked at their soaked bags, the endless camp ahead… and nodded.

She wrapped the pup in her scarf, cradling him close. He licked her chin, tail wagging weakly.
She smiled and whispered, “You lost your home too, huh? Same pinch, we are best friends now.”

Entry 86

You remember me only when it rains too much or too little.

You blame the heavens,fold your hands like I’m the one who cut down the forests,
paved over the rivers,choked the skies.

Still — I listen. I remember the girl who begged me to save her boat .

The farmer who asked not for riches, but for clouds.
The boy who held a shivering pup and whispered, “Please don’t let him die.”

I gave you fire. Water. Soil.Each other.

You remember me in chaos. But I have always been in the silence after.

Entry 87

The First Drop

Rain is a blessing for farmers. But when drought struck our village, it cracked not just the land, but hearts and lives.

While others sold their lands and fled to cities, I stayed back , a farmer named Krishna, like the god of rain and fertility.

Jewelry gone. Children out of school. Debts unpaid . One meal a day. Still, I ploughed, believing the sky would listen to me . My body gave up . I collapsed in the field.

And then… a drop. A single drop on my face. Not sweat. Not a tear. Its Rain . No , its not just rain.

A drop of blessing !

Entry 88

Just a Mother

“Chintu, Chotu! Don’t play in the rain. See how responsible your elder brother Chinna is,” Mom shouted. “Come eat. Chiki and Chinki are waiting. Only a few rotis left.”

She split them among her five children and starved. Again. The roof leaked. The rain poured harder. At night, she wrapped them in her arms, shielding them from the cold.

By morning, the roof had collapsed.

On the news: A mother dog died in the rain saving her puppies. The puppies survived. Hope they will get adopted.

Just a mother . Giving everything to her children . Be it paws or palms.

we call it as love !

Entry 89

Just like falling rain

“Aaj bhi wahi karela ki sabzi, Radha?” Madhav grumbled

“If you want to eat, eat. I’m leaving,” she snapped, grabbing her bag.

“Take your umbrella,” he said .While she slammed the door and left to work.

He forgot their anniversary. She was upset. By evening, it poured. Radha searched her bag. No umbrella. A voice called, “Here.”Madhav stood there holding her umbrella. “I saw you left it.” She smiled. They walked together, like in their teenage days — giggling under a plastic sheet.

As they walked:

“Kal nahi banaogi na karela ki sabzi?” He asked

“Pata nahi,” she said. They both laughed. Just like falling rain !

Entry 90

Life doesn’t end until it ends.

“Grandma, I’m tired of this lecture,” Aadhya yelled . “You’ll never understand my pain.”

“I understand more than you know,” Grandma Daya said softly. “But pain won’t end by locking yourself inside room . Go , Listen to nature. Feel how raindrops tap stories on your skin. Hear the giggles of playing children even when they have no roof. Listen to thunder , not as fear, but as a drum of courage. ”

She left the room, door open.

A cold breeze touched Aadhya’s face. She heard rain.

Slowly, using her stick, she stepped out to the balcony and stretched her hand out .

Raindrops kissed her hand. She couldn’t see it. But she felt it. Just like music !

Entry 91

Monsoon Veil

Rain reveals true colours. On a bus to a remote village, Jyoti overheard people talk about mysterious deaths during monsoon. She got scared . A soft voice beside her assured that they were rumours.

“I’m Tamira,” she smiled. They talked and become friendly .

At her stop, Tamira got off. Later, Jyoti did too. It was pitch-dark. She sensed someone following. Suddenly , somone grabbed her neck with a knife . Jyoti fought back, pushed the attacker down, and pulled out her gun.

Tamira exposed as the serial killer. Gunshot. Phone rings.

“Officer Jyoti , Is the job done?” asked the voice.

“Yes, Sir,” Jyoti replied.

Justice served and it rained heavily .

Entry 92

Rain, cups of chai, and precious memories.

Rain drizzled over the thatched roof of the rustic tea shop as Naina enjoyed hot masala chai and samosa. She suddenly began to sketch the memories of her first love with a wistful smile.

One of their first dates was at the same tea shop. They laughed over endless conversations, stealing glances. Aarav twirled her around. He held her tightly as they walked sharing the umbrella. Even in the pouring rain, she felt safe in his arms.

Suddenly, his voice said, “You still remember it haan?”

She looked at the sketch, their precious memories of that special day.

And the couple laughed again, another precious day over rain, snacks, conversations.

Entry 93

Rain falls, indifferent to our days, troubles, or routines. It simply descends, destined to meet the ground. Is that its only purpose? Droplet after droplet tumbles down. Wipers push them aside, umbrellas divert their path. A deep rumble follows. Is this just science at work? The sea accepts the new water, rising. Waves kiss the shore, mingling with rain, freshwater and salt becoming one. Lightning flashes as if to be seen, to make its presence known. Thunder answers, playing its part. We are no match for nature. So just stand still, eyes closed, face turned upward. Let the rain slowly drench you, surrounds you, caresses you.

Entry 94

Outside, the storm has broken out. It's too dark to see the rain, but I can hear it pounding relentlessly and mercilessly on the streets, on the rooftops, on the umbrellas of people hurrying down the street. It runs down the windows of shops and cafes. Children watch droplets chase each other down the rear window of a car, placing silent bets. The sky flares in a rhapsody of black, cobalt, violet, and white.

It's coming. I feel it, I feel it... And then, BOOM!!! There's the flash that explodes into thunder. Tonight, the world stops and watches the drops fall like applause from heaven.

Entry 95

Mr. Darcy's words still echoed around her, obliterating everything around her. He had declared his love for her. Those words, spoken with such difficulty, had fallen upon her like the rain they had found themselves under.

Each syllable, each feeling, had landed like a cold drop against warm skin. She remembered his lips. Drops of rain slowly fell from the corners of his mouth, then ran down his chin, his neck, and slipped under his shirt.

That summer storm had struck her, as had Mr. Darcy's gaze. The raindrops nestled between his lashes, embellishing them. His breath against her face- the fire in him burning close, undeniable.

Entry 96

The apology arrived like the monsoon. Loud, messy, impossible to ignore.
Lydia stood under the awning, umbrella forgotten, as Archer jogged up. Wet, breathless, utterly ridiculous.
His hoodie clung to him, the words "Raincheck rebel " barely legible.
In his hands: a soggy cardboard sign, marker smudged with hope.
“I MESSED UP. DO YOU THINK RAIN CAN WASH THAT AWAY?”

He looked like every half-finished sentence she never got to say.

“I dreamt about your laugh last night,” he added. “Woke up crying.”
She blinked, rain dripping from her lashes.
“I brought hot chocolate. And dry socks?”

Silence. She took the cup. Sipped.

“Next time, don’t wait for the rain.”

Entry 97

It was pouring rain the day Maya welcomed Rhett, a newborn wrapped only in a damp, patched blanket. Years of rain passed, wetting memories of sleepless nights, laughter, and first steps. Rhett grew up tall, kind, brilliant. At 18, with a scholarship to Harvard, he stood on the stage at his graduation. Outside, it was still raining. “Everyone was asking me where my real mom was,” he said. “She’s here. She didn’t give me life… she saved me.” As the applause erupted, Rhett stepped off the stage, the rain pelting the windows. He hugged Maya and said “You are my sunshine, even on rainy days, Mama”.

Entry 98

That afternoon, the bell had just rung when it started raining. The children ran to the porch, but some remained outside, holding out their hands.

"Teacher, why did the downpour surprise us like this?"

"Because the sky, sometimes, likes to play unexpectedly." She replied back

"And why does it blow so hard?"

"It's singing ancient songs to the trees and rooftops."

"Teacher, will the downpour stop soon?" Asked another kid

"Maybe so, but in the meantime, let's listen to its music."

"And why do I feel happy in the rain?" "Because when the sky dance with the water, the heart also feels unburdened. And in those moments, everything seems lighter."

Entry 99

The rain fell lightly, like a breath on my skin. When I saw him, under the usual streetlight, with a small bouquet of pink magnolias, my heart did that same silent leap. Magnolias… I've always found them too big. I'd told him it, laughing, years ago. But he kept bringing them to me.

"I've never known how to choose the right flowers for you, but I've always chosen you," he'd told me one evening, without asking for anything in return. And now we were there, wet, still, as if time were waiting for us. I took the flowers. And I smiled. Because sometimes, truly loving is just staying.

Entry 100

The rain was falling lightly, but between them, it was a storm. Once, a caress had been enough to feel safe. Now, every word was a wound, every silence a held goodbye. She stood under the shelter. He stood in the rain, wet and stubborn, as if the cold could wash away his pride.

“This wasn't supposed to end this way” she whispered.
“Love wasn't supposed to hurt” he replied, his eyes as red as his shaking hands.

The storm exploded above them, wild and merciless. And it’s clear that neither of them knew how to stop loving. But it wasn't the sky that was screaming. It was their hearts.

Entry 101

It's raining heavily. Maddy comes home soaked, tired, and nervous. Her father is in front of the TV asleep. Her mother, from the kitchen, yells that she has to wash her clothes alone. As always. They argue about bills, money, old things, and unresolved grudges. But they're there. Present. Dysfunctional, but present. There's a plate with a cold sandwich on the table. The smell of home, even if it's crooked. The rain beats on the windows, drowning out the screams. Maddy says nothing, but stays. Because despite everything, that's home. Not perfect, not peaceful, but real. And sometimes, just being there is enough. Even in the rain.

Entry 102

The rain fell relentlessly, as if it wanted to erase everything. But it couldn't. He was there, soaked, his eyes fixed on us.

"She chose me!" he said, his voice cracking.

I looked at him, still. "Did she?"

Because he saw her. He saw when she opened her umbrella, took three steps... and then came to me. A small, silent gesture. But it was enough. She didn't take my hand. She didn't say anything. But she stopped beside me, and the umbrella covered us both. And under that rain, for the first time, I didn't feel alone. I felt chosen.

Entry 103

The sound of rain on the leaves, the scent of wet earth, the birds chirping, and I lie there savoring the awakening of this day, stretched out in my bed, with a candle’s light and incense’s scent. Outside, the sky weeps softly, as if trying to wash away the invisible wounds of the world. The drops trace little melodies on the glass, and I follow them with my gaze, losing myself in that slow flow. Nothing else is needed: the rain is enough for me. It brings silence, peace, and that strange nostalgia that warms the heart. A new day is born under the rain, and I smile at it.

Entry 104

Aryan stood by the window, listening to the rain and the whispering breeze. The season’s first shower—her favorite. Imlie used to say the scent of wet earth smelled like home, like Pagdandiya. Today, it almost felt like she was there. He smiled, remembering her tugging his hand, begging him to dance in the rain. When he’d protest, she’d pout—hand outstretched, please on her lips, knowing it was his undoing.

“Little minx,” he used to whisper, giving in, always.

That smile—bright as lightning—was his alone. Now, all he felt was a cold absence in place of the warm hugs that used to be his home.

Entry 105

The umbrella barely covered them, but he held her close, shielding her from the rain and the world. She laughed, head tucked beneath his chin. “This isn’t working.”

“It’s working perfectly,” he said.

The traffic roared past, the sky cried above, but in that tiny pocket of warmth, everything slowed. She would leave in two days, to a different city and would lead a different life. But right now, her fingers curled around his, and he tightened his grip— as if love could be held like that.

Even when he knew it couldn’t.

Entry 106

The wind snatched her hat and sent it tumbling down the platform; he caught it mid-air, just as she turned, breathless, rain trailing down her face. Their eyes met—hers wide and laughing, framed by soaked lashes, a moment suspended between strangers.

“Thanks,” she said softly, her voice barely louder than the rain.

He meant to reply, but the words caught in his throat. For a moment, everything else—noise, motion, time—blurred into the downpour. The blast of horn brought him back to reality -- Hat in hand, he stood still, heart strangely full. Some people pass through like rain—brief, beautiful, unforgettable.

Gone before you knew you needed them to stay.

Entry 107

Rain poured, but he didn’t flinch—his tiny hand still grasped hers tight. “Ma, we’ll get wet!” he squealed, hesitating at the doorway. His mother just smiled, slipping off her sandals. “So? Getting wet isn’t the worst thing, beta. Missing it is.”

She tugged his hand and pulled him into the downpour. Puddles splashed, thunder clapped, and he laughed for the first time that week. She twirled, rain in her hair, eyes closed like the storm was music. In that moment, he wasn’t just a boy in the rain.

He was her boy—in the safest place on earth: next to the woman who taught him joy could be loud, messy, and wet.

Entry 108

The first drop hit her nose, and she grinned. “It’s starting!” Before he could answer, she grabbed his hand, pulled him into the courtyard, her bangles jingling louder than the thunder.

“Dance with me,” she said, already spinning, soaked and radiant.

“I don’t dance,” he began—then she crashed into him, laughing, rain pouring around them.

He followed her, he couldn't help but do. She pulled him close, no music but thunder and her heartbeat against his.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” she whispered, breath brushing his lips. “I never had the right partner,” he said, kissing her like the storm didn’t exist. And in the downpour, love found its rhythm.

Entry 109

It rains the day Aryan signs the release papers. She lies motionless, their unborn child a heartbeat he can’t feel.

Pagdandiya smells of wet earth—petrichor. Her favorite. She used to close her eyes and breathe it in like a promise. "Rain forgives everything," Imlie once told him, drenched, grinning, dragging him into the storm. He never told her how that moment saved him. Now, he stands in the downpour outside the hospital, numb, drenched in everything left unsaid. “I never stopped loving you,” he whispers to the sky.

The rain fell, relentless, mirroring the tears he couldn't shed, a constant, aching reminder of what was irrevocably gone.

Entry 110

He never hated the rain—until it took everything he held dear. That night, the sky cracked open too late. Arpita was already on her way, unaware the roads ahead would drown in grief. The thunder didn’t warn—it silenced. Since then, every drop feels like betrayal.

He watches his children sleep, their dreams stitched with a mother’s absence. Three hearts were irrevocably broken that night and no sun, no season or reason could ever put them back. Years later, whenever it rains, Yash still freezes. Because the world calls it weather. But for him, it’s the sound of loss, an echo of goodbye. The day his love died.

Entry 111

The window crashed open, wind howling as rain slapped her face, sharp and sudden. She gasped, startled, her book slipping from her lap and hitting the floor, pages spreading like wings. She’d been drifting—lost in the idea of him, in memories that felt softer than the truth.

The storm didn’t ask; it barged in, wild and cold, like grief that never really left. Heart pounding, she stood and slammed the window shut. The room was soaked, and so was she. Sometimes, it took a storm to remind her: he was gone.

And no matter how much it hurt—
she was still here.

Entry 112

Rain tapped gently on the window, and Meera paused, teacup in hand. The scent of wet earth always brought him back—Grandpa, with his paper boats and pocketful of boiled sweets. They'd sit by the verandah, legs dangling, counting thunder between flashes. He’d hum old songs, off-key, while she danced in circles, arms outstretched.

“Rain’s just the sky playing,” he once said, handing her a warm towel and a grin.

Years later, she still smiled when it stormed. No boats now, no humming voice—but every monsoon, she’d open the window wide, let the breeze in, and remember how love once sounded in the rain.

Entry 113

Rain drummed on the tin roof like a lullaby. Mira stood barefoot, sari soaked and clinging, arms outstretched as the sky poured down. Beside her, Aarav shrieked with delight, stomping puddles like they were treasure. She smiled—he was her reflection, years younger, spinning in her mother’s courtyard, wild with wonder. In the rhythm of the rain, she could almost hear her mother’s laughter.

“Mama, dance with me!” he called, eyes wide with joy.

She blinked, reverie broken, and took his hand.

And she danced—because one day, he’d remember not the house or the clothes, but this: the rain, and how love felt weightless for a while.

Entry 114

Rain was an emotion to her—a beautiful language spoken by the drops. It carried weight, like people do: sometimes cruel, sometimes impossibly tender. She watched how it coaxed petals to bloom, how trees trembled—sometimes in fear, sometimes in awe. Rain could shift stories, even rewrite fates.

But it never came alone. First, the thunderstorm—wild, unflinching, tearing through without apology. It wrecked what stood too proud, too unsteady, too new. Yet those who endured were offered something rare: A rainbow. Exhilarating. Undeniably beautiful. It was as if the sky itself whispered, Yes! You made it and you’re still here.

That feeling—of surviving the storm—was what petrichor meant to a rain lover.

Entry 115

Familiar blue eyes. When was the last time she'd seen them? When they'd ran through the streets hand in hand, making their way home. It'd been raining hard, but the cold wetness had been nothing against the warmth of their hearts.

No, she reminded herself. The last time she'd seen those eyes was on a hospital bed. Cold. Dead.

Now, the eyes looking back at her weren't dead anymore. But they were definitely cold. And... hungry.

She backtracked, only to hit a wall that wasn't there a moment before.

The eyes smiled. Still cold. She closed her own. Fighting was futile. The rain started.

"Come, darling. Let's go home."

Entry 116

Closing her umbrella, Rani wrung out her wet hair. Until the rain lessened, they could stay here.

Looking around, the cave seemed well-maintained. There were several statues — some animal, some human — all in pristine condition. Not a speck of dirt, either.

The statues looked very realistic.

Rani dug out her phone, hoping to play some music, when she noticed the statue in the furthest corner. It looked... very much like her.

"Wonderful, isn't it?"

Rani spun around. Her boyfriend was smiling widely at her, a mad glint in his eyes.

Rani smiled back.

"Music?" she offered, playing her favourite.

Her boyfriend turned to stone right before her eyes. Wonderful, indeed.

Entry 117

Standing by the palace window, she watches the royal garden get sprinkled by raindrops.

"Jodha Begum?" Her husband walks up to her.

"Monsoon has arrived, Shahenshah," she says quietly.

He understands immediately. “Missing your homeland?”

"Amer is beautiful when it rains."

Akbar holds out a hand. “Come with me?”

He leads her to the courtyard, where several musicians have gathered. At his nod, the first notes of Megh Mallar fill the air. It's a Rajasthani bandish they've chosen. She looks at him, a surprised smile in her eyes. He smiles back knowingly. As the music rains and the rain sings, the two souls entwine in a language of their own.

Entry 118

Too late for regrets

It was raining.

Pouring down in torrents that left rivulets of water flowing past his shoes.

He had never liked monsoons, unable to see its allure past all the muddy potholes.

However, today it seemed befitting. Like the heavens were expressing their sorrow too.

His family stood right beside him, and yet, seemed so far beyond reach. Grief had brought them all together, willing to forget all personal disputes. Salty tears mingled with the rain water as apologies fell from their lips.

But wasn’t it too late for regrets? he pondered, as his own name stared back from the gravestone.

Entry 119

The umbrella

She stood there, trying to open the infernal umbrella.

It was a family heirloom, something that her sixteen-year-old self had been skeptical about. Afterall, it looked plain, nothing to show for its supposed prestige.

“You’ll see someday” her mother had said, followed by a little wink.

But standing here a decade later, drenched from head to toe, she couldn’t help cursing the stupid object. Just as she was ready to give up, the rain suddenly stopped hitting her.

Looking up, she saw a young man holding his umbrella over her. As their eyes met, her heart skipped a beat.

Oh!

Entry 120

The Unconventional Innovator

She ran through the streets, not minding the puddles for once.

After listening to her relentless complaints about wet shoes, he had decided to do something about it.

Whenever she had a problem, he always offered unique solutions. And while the Pet Rock™ (because she didn’t have time to care for an actual pet) had been… dubious at best; the Air Conditioner Hat™ (for sunny days) was a life changer.

Wondering what he would have in store for her today, she tore open the packet hastily.

“So?” He asked eagerly.

“Err” was all she could manage, looking at the Shoe-brellas™.

Entry 121

As Stubborn as the Rain

Tara was on her way home, and it was raining, just as heavy as her heart. Suddenly she froze as the lightning lit up a dark figure standing next to her. As she blinked, she was back in time. Dev, her late boyfriend, stood there, with the same heartwarming smile.

She ran to him, hugged him tight as the rain matched the rhythm of her heartbeat.

He looked into her eyes. “The rain never gives up. Sometimes light, sometimes loud, but it keeps trying. You should too.”

She nodded, tearful. Thunder struck again. She was back to present, smiling softly. Ready to live again. As stubborn as the rain.

Entry 122

Paws in the Rain

Raghav hated the rain. He was wrapped in a blanket, all grumpy. Suddenly, they heard a soft bark. His daughter Miya rushed to the door, finding a cute, trembling puppy.

“Papa, can we keep her warm?” she asked, pleading.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But only for a few hours.”

They warmed her up, fed her milk. She snuggled against him. Miya placed the pup in his lap. The little dog looked up at his human as thunder rattled the windowpanes.

Something melted. He cuddled it. Night fell.

“Can she stay?” Miya whispered.

Raghav smiled. “Yes.”

And for the first time, he silently thanked the rain for this cute new member.