When I was a kid, we lived in a joint family. It was a full house with me and all my sisters, all roughly the same age. Every time it rained, we would drop everything and run up to the terrace. The space wasn’t fancy far from it, but to me, it felt like the best playground in the world. We’d dance in the rain, shout, laugh, and slip around. No worries, just joy. But the thing I remember most clearly isn’t even the playing. It’s the smell. The scent of the sandstone getting wet- warm and earthy, like something rooted and comforting. I didn’t have the words for it back then, but it felt like time stopped for a moment and just let us be. I’ve lived through many rains since then, both in Delhi and London, and every time it rains I am reminded of those memories. But the smell? It never came back. I’ve never found it again. And maybe that’s the fondest memory of rain in my mind, and it is what I miss the most.