I once read a line that quietly stayed with me:
“What a privilege it is to love the rain.”
It stood out to me because for the longest time, I did not. I couldn’t.
See, when people think of rain, they often think of soft music, a hot cup of chai, maybe a book by the window, a romanticised image we’ve all grown up with. But, not everyone gets to meet the rain that way.
For me, growing up, rain meant stress.
It always happened during my school exams, and in the colony where I resided, the drainage system would break under the first heavy downpour. The streets would get flooded, my school van wouldn’t be able to negotiate, and we did not have a car. All I remember is sitting with my books the night before an exam, staring out the window with growing anxiety, wondering how I’d reach school the next day.
I was a studious, quiet kid. Exams were important to me. Predictability was important to me. And the rain, it didn’t give a damn!
So no, I didn’t think it was beautiful. I didn’t think it was poetic. I found it unsettling. Even now, a part of me gets nervous when the clouds roll in too dark, too quick.
That’s when I understood, it’s easy to make the rain sound romantic when you’re seeing it through the safety of a window.
When it’s not dripping from your ceiling.
When you’re not stranded on a broken road.
When it doesn’t remind you of something you once felt but couldn’t fix.
To love the rain, as so many other things, is a quiet privilege.
And this goes beyond just weather. People love summer or they despise it. People enjoy winter or feel stuck. For each one huddled with a mug of hot cocoa and a cozy sweater, there’s another struggling to survive another power outage.
We all have these little, individual narratives. Narratives no one else will ever witness.
So, the next time that you hear, “Ugh, I hate this weather,” or “Why don’t you like the rain?”, perhaps just stop. Perhaps ask. Or perhaps, don’t. Just realize that everybody has their reasons.
Because not all dislike is negativity. Sometimes, it’s memory. Sometimes, it’s past. Sometimes, it’s the pain you’ve outgrown, but not forgotten. And yet, here’s the hopeful part: With time, even our harshest memories can soften. I still jump in heavy downpours, but I’m getting accustomed to sitting by the window now.
I don’t always enjoy the rain, but I no longer despise it.
That, also, is a form of healing.
So, whatever the time of year, the moment, or the memory – be kind. Not everyone navigates the same weather the same way.
And some of us are still drying off.