Monsoon never changed. Bengaluru did
There was a time when rain and I understood each other, and Bengaluru quietly approved of the arrangement. Growing up in this city, rain was never an inconvenience. It was part of the rhythm of life. Pre-summer showers would drift in quietly, cooling the city without bringing it to a halt. Monsoon brought heavier downpours, but even those seemed to possess a sense of timing and restraint. Rain interrupted little. Instead, it invited participation. You could even enjoy it.
As children, we rushed outdoors at the first sign of darkening skies. The narrow gutters outside our homes became miniature rivers into which we stepped without hesitation, never pausing to worry about bacterial counts. Rain was not a public health advisory. By college, I was something of an unofficial weatherman, who could look at a perfectly sunny Bengaluru afternoon and predict rain before the post-lunch lecture ended. I could smell the petrichor even before the first drop hit Earth’s floor.
Even after work consumed schedules and spontaneity, my relationship with rain remained intact. A shower was an invitation to slow down. I would stand by windows watching the city blur behind silver streaks, take the longer route home simply because it felt right, and occasionally surrender to getting drenched for no reason other than the joy of it. Rain was not merely weather. It altered the mood.
But somewhere along the way, Bengaluru changed the terms of my relationship with rain. A downpour that once inspired poetry now triggers traffic updates. Roads disappear beneath water with astonishing efficiency. Potholes become tests of faith and vehicle suspension. The Earthiness, once the city’s signature perfume, now competes with sewage rising through overwhelmed drains. Those little streams outside our homes have either disappeared or mutated into channels for things no child should be encouraged to paddle through.
Colleagues know me as the person who plans around rain. Not because I dislike getting wet. But because this means something different today. Perhaps that is what I miss most. Not merely the rain of my childhood, but the version of Bengaluru that treated it as a companion rather than a crisis. This season, as clouds of drought loom large, both Bengaluru and I are missing rain. Maybe rain and I still understand each other but are trying to find our way back through the city that grew up around us.
Disclaimer
Views expressed above are the author’s own.
