🌧️ Flashback: The Last Rainy Day

The sky had turned that soft silver-grey that promised rain, not a storm, just the kind that hummed gently against rooftops. Aanya sat by the window, chin resting on her palm, watching the drizzle gather on the glass like tiny tears. From the kitchen, she heard Rhea scolding the house help for leaving the floor wet.

“Honestly, some people have no sense of tidiness,” she muttered, the clatter of utensils following her irritation.

But Aanya wasn’t listening. Her mind had already begun to drift—

She was eight. The sky looked just like this.

“Come on!” her mother called from the veranda, holding out a ridiculously colourful umbrella. “It’s just a drizzle. Don’t you want to see the frogs again?”

Aanya had grinned, slipping her tiny feet into rubber sandals and bolting outside. The grass was slippery, the air thick with the earthy scent of petrichor. Her mother held the umbrella low so Aanya could hide beneath it, and they strolled down the garden path together.

At some point, the umbrella tilted, and they both got soaked. Her mother laughed, a full, belly-deep laugh that echoed against the trees.

Aanya shrieked, spinning in circles, arms wide open. “We’re going to get in trouble with Papa!”

Her mother had crouched beside her, brushing her wet hair out of her face. “Sometimes, a little trouble is worth it. Rainy days don’t come with rules.”

They’d returned home soaked, giggling, leaving muddy footprints in the bathroom. That night, curled under the blanket with a shared bowl of halwa, her mother whispered:

“Even rainy days feel warm when your heart is light.”

Aanya blinked away the memory as her fingers traced drops on the windowpane.

That day felt like it belonged to a different world. One where love was spontaneous and messy and full of laughter. Not this cold performance where every smile was curated, every step monitored.

Back in the present, Aanya blinked, her throat tightening, and wiped her cheek quickly as a single tear betrayed her.

She reached for her sketchbook and, with soft pencil strokes, drew a braid, a star-shaped chocolate, and a sari dancing in the wind.

She didn’t know it yet, but this was how she’d begin reclaiming her voice.