“Monsoon is the season when the sky writes poetry in raindrops.”Buddy Holly, Singing in the Rain
“Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it about learning to dance in the rain!”… Vivian Greene.
Welcome to the third and final voting round. The most well liked entries from the original 122 have been selected for this round, after the initial voting rounds.
The verdict given by the readers will decide the winners of popular category.
Everyone is welcome to participate in voting.
Selected 33 entries are spread, over 2 posts.
Please Vote for 5 entries
You can not vote for your own entries . … Please don't edit your votes.Voting starts 16 Aug 2025, ends on 25 Aug 2025 2359 hrs .Do not advertise your entries on any platform. Any foul play if detected , the entry will be removed from voting.
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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.”
Cricket
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