The day doesn’t feel like it’s really started. My alarm flashes 08:00, but there’s no light leaking through the slats of the blinds. I yank them open, greeted by the sight of rain-streaked windows. It’s the best kind of day to skip classes and huddle under my blanket, finally starting the book I bought last summer but never had time to read. One hour, I tell myself, resetting my alarm for 9 a.m., plans forgotten for the day as I’m lulled back to sleep by the sound of the rain.
Vancouver rain is nothing like the rain back home. The persistence of it forces you to hate it — two days of rain is beautiful, but the second the 48-hour mark is crossed, it becomes tiresome and I begin pining for the days I bunked school (parental permission granted, of course) and curled up on the sofa with a cup of chai, chatting with my mom about everything and nothing. “Barso Re” — the quintessential Bollywood rainy day song — lies at the heart of Delhi rains, compelling you to get out of your house, get drenched and dance in the downpour.
Countless rainy days have been spent slithering down slides, unbothered by muddy dresses and bruised knees. Stories of chaos form the foundation of my family — during the worst of it, my mom would block the drains in our balcony, letting the water fill up: our very own swimming pool. Those are the days we won’t get back, our family split in half, as I fight off the loneliness that sets in each time the sky darkens, signalling the onset of the sun-less winter ahead.
It isn’t all bad. There’s a haunting calmness to the incessant pattering. No matter what changes, I know I can always count on the rain to be there — the rhythm of Vancouver’s soul. The best work is produced during the rain. That pile of assignments that needs to be submitted tomorrow? It’ll be done today, no excuses left in my endless why-not-to-work-bank as I’m boxed into my room with nowhere to go.
Suddenly being forced to take care of yourself — cooking, cleaning, exercising, studying — is a huge part of the missing home package. Life seems to slip through your fingers as you stay busy not dying, in charge of keeping yourself alive when you had your parents to do that for you a mere two years ago. Rain would mean pakoras and chai at 5 p.m., while complaining about how bad the potholes would be tomorrow. Here, rain means I won’t see my friends for the next few days, since no one’s brave enough to fight the rain, the wind and the cold. The Vancouver Holy Trinity.
What I yearn for the most, though, is the scent of chai wafting down the corridor, snaking under the door and filling every crevice of my home. Brimming with elaichi (cardamom), laung (cloves) and black peppercorns, rainy days remain incomplete without a steaming cup of masala chai cupped in my hands, warming my palms. Travelling down the path of what I don’t have on grey rainy days overshadows what I do, making it impossible to appreciate the Vancouver rain as I shed tears for the rain I left behind.
There I was, trying not to feel sorry for myself when my phone rang. “Do you want some chai?” my friend asked. A relatively new friend, too. So with hesitation, I agreed, unsure of what I was getting into. Another chai disappointment? The rain pelted outside. I had nothing better to do, and she lived two floors below. The minute she opened her door, the scent hit me: my dad’s chai. Now, she’s a permanent part of my week and I frequent her house when it rains.
The hole I’ve dug for myself each rainfall, silently disappearing into my room for days on end, fills up a little more after every chai date. Finding the beauty in Vancouver’s rain — that’s what was missing. Little pieces of home are present everywhere, if only one knows where to look.
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