The air had changed.

Rohan could smell it before he heard it — that earthy scent that rises just before the monsoon arrives. The sky had turned greyish-blue, the kind of color that makes you pause and look up without thinking. Thunder rumbled softly somewhere far away, like an old man clearing his throat.

He stood barefoot in the courtyard, staring at the sky as a sudden wind swept through, rustling the mango leaves. A few dry ones broke loose and floated down like slow-falling thoughts.

Then came the rain.

Not a drizzle — but a proper first-rain sort of downpour. Loud, unannounced, joyful. Within seconds, the red mud of the courtyard turned to sticky clay, and the old roof began its familiar symphony of dripping, gushing, overflowing water.

Rohan didn’t run inside.

Instead, he moved to the mango tree, like he always used to. It had always been their shelter during storms — him, Nana, and Aaji. The thick leaves held off most of the rain, and beneath it, everything felt smaller and safer.

He sat down against the tree trunk, the cold bark pressing into his back, and smiled.

Nana used to tell him stories here. Especially during the monsoon.

“You know why mango trees love the rain, Rohan?”

“Why, Nana?”

“Because it reminds them of the time the clouds fell in love with the Earth. And the mango trees were the messengers. They caught the first rains and passed the kiss of the clouds down into the soil. That’s why mangoes are sweet — they carry love in them.”

Rohan had laughed when he was a kid, but he’d believed it. And now, soaked in the smell of wet leaves and mud, it didn’t feel like a story anymore.

The rain fell harder. Water poured from the tin gutters. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked, and the village came alive in a different way — as if everything was taking a breath together.

He saw a small frog hop across the path and hide under a stone. A little boy ran down the lane, shirtless, holding up a plastic bottle as if trying to collect the whole monsoon in it. Laughter echoed faintly.

From the kitchen window, he saw the half-washed dishes on the counter. For a moment, he imagined Aaji standing there, heating chai on the stove, humming old film songs. Nana reading a paper, calling out random trivia. And himself — small feet muddy, hair dripping, waiting for pakoras.

He closed his eyes.

This wasn't just weather. This was memory returning in water.

When the rain finally slowed, the world shimmered — trees greener, earth darker, everything cleaner somehow. Rohan stepped out from under the tree and looked at the house, its tiled roof glistening.

It had survived so many storms. Just like him.

And somewhere inside, beneath dust and time, his roots were still holding strong.