Stillness , In The Rain

Growing up, rainy weather wasn’t an everyday thing. It was seasonal, something to look forward to—something that showed up with all the drama and left just as quickly. I used to wait for the rain like a kid waits for a festival.

Not because of the weather, but because rain meant I didn’t have to go to school. One look outside and boom—“It’s flooding, maa, I swear the school will be empty.”

Of course, it wasn’t. But the lie felt worth it.

We would run outside, my friends and I, playing in the rain until we were soaked head to toe, chasing paper boats through the drains and laughing like idiots. Someone always lost a slipper in the muddy water. Someone always fell. Then came the stealth mission—sneaking back into the house dripping wet, hoping not to get caught. (We always got caught.)

And then the begging started:
“Maa, pakore banao na… please? Nal chaia v.”(Mom, make some pakoras please(Indian fritters)… and tea too.)

And she would act annoyed, but 20 minutes later, the whole house smelled like fried onions, green chillies, and comfort.

It was a vibe. It was messy and warm and chaotic in the best way. I didn’t know then that this feeling would become a memory I would chase for years.

Fast forward.
Now I live in a city where it rains all the time. Like, all the damn time.

Not that dramatic, once-a-year rain. This one’s quieter, colder, and... never-ending. At first, it drove me nuts. You can’t plan anything without checking the weather. You can’t not carry an umbrella. It's as essential as wearing underwear. Miss it, and you’re screwed.

At first, it sucked. I hated the damp, the soggy shoes, the endless grey skies. But then, slowly, something changed. I stopped fighting the rain and started living with it. I made peace with it. It took me a while to adjust. Honestly, I fought it for months. Every time it rained, I would complain as if it was personal. As if the sky had something against me. But slowly, something shifted.

What once felt heavy and annoying began to feel… calming. Familiar, even. I didn’t love it right away—but I stopped resenting it. And somewhere in between warm cups of chai, quiet mornings, and the soft rhythm of rain on glass, I started to like it. Really like it.

At some point, I stopped waiting for the rain to stop. I stopped treating indoor days like wasted days. Now, staying in has its own kind of rhythm(could be the age factor too). I started writing more, reading a bit, just slowing down and checking in with myself.

Rainy days gave me permission to rest. To not feel guilty for doing nothing. It’s like the rain says, “Stay in. Chill out. Be gentle.”

On days like this, the little things matter — Warm socks. Oversized hoodie. A blanket that smells like detergent. Background music that loops forever. You light a candle, maybe. Brew some chai. Not because you’re romanticizing anything—just because it feels better and your go-to mug, even if it’s chipped.

When the outside is grey and wet for days, you’re kind of forced to look inward—and I don’t mean that in a deep, spiritual way. I just mean… You end up spending a lot of time indoors. So you start making it feel good. Comfortable. Like something that actually belongs to you.

I’ve learnt to enjoy little rituals. Rearranging shelves for no reason. Journaling next to a foggy window. Making aloo pakoras on a Wednesday night, because why the hell not? Even toast with butter feels like a treat when it’s grey and gloomy outside. Some days, I just sit with a hot cup of tea and listen to the rain hit the glass. And for a few minutes, everything feels still. And enough.

It’s the little things. Always...

It’s easy to get caught up in big ideas of happiness—adventures, travel, “living your best life” type of things. But rainy cities teach you to appreciate small stuff. A hot shower after a cold walk. That first bite of something crispy and spicy. Finding the perfect blanket-to-couch ratio.

And when the walls start closing in, I step out. Walks in the drizzle with headphones on. A quiet corner in a café. Or calling someone and talking about nothing for an hour.

No filters, no productivity. Just… being.

Sometimes that’s all you need. Not to escape, not to achieve, just to exist in a way that feels soft and honest. No pressure to feel amazing. Just okay is enough.
And on those days, with the rain tapping on the windows and everything moving a little slower—life feels a bit more real. A bit more yours.

So yeah. I’ve made peace with the rain...

But some days are still annoying. You’ll get soaked, forget your umbrella, and step in a puddle that feels personal. But now, it doesn’t ruin my day. If anything, it gives me permission to slow down. To stay in. To build something soft and real inside my space. Inside myself.

Indoor living isn’t plan B anymore. It’s the plan.
And on some days, when the pakoras are sizzling and the playlist is just right, it even feels like home.

Of course, I still miss the sun. I miss dry jeans and flip-flops and that feeling of just being... dry. But now, when I hear the rain hitting the windows, I don’t get annoyed. I smile. I grab a book, a blanket, or just sit quietly with a warm drink.

Rain stopped being the enemy. It became a reason to slow down. A chance to hit pause in a world that’s always rushing.

Honestly, this whole cozy vibe — this blog — started one rainy afternoon when I was curled up with tea, thinking about those old memories and how the rain feels now. And I’m so glad that little thought turned into something real — a community of folks who get it, who find comfort in those slow, quiet moments just like me.

So if you’re stuck inside because of the rain — or just stuck in life — try leaning into it. Make some tea. Light a candle. Watch your favourite feel-good movie. Let the rain remind you that it’s okay to slow down, to do less. Sometimes the best days are the ones where you don’t leave the house at all. Sometimes those are the days that bring you back to yourself.