Rainy Days and Orange Bar Energy

The sky turned dark out of nowhere. I was just reaching out for my cold coffee, ready for my peaceful, romantic Instagram-worthy monsoon moment — window, drizzle, maybe a reel sound in the background —when I saw my neighbour’s kids sprint indoors like someone had set off a siren. One tiny raindrop and everyone scattered like it was a weather emergency.

And just like that, I was catapulted straight back to a time when we didn’t run from the rain — we ran because of it. With hope. With excitement. Because in school, the rainy season was the most important subject on the timetable. No one cared about what chapter we were on — we were too busy tracking cloud movement. We didn’t need weather apps. We had instincts. A little breeze, a dark cloud, that feeling of flutter and excitement in our stomachs, and our brains would instantly go into manifestation mode.

“Maybe they’ll cancel the assembly?”

“Maybe the teacher won’t come today.”

“Maybe they’ll just cancel the whole day and send us home!”

Monsoons meant wet benches, Olympic-level puddle hopping, and guarding our white canvas shoes with our lives — because nothing was scarier than getting caught with muddy slobs right before the shoe inspection at assembly.

Something today’s kids will never understand — they stroll into assembly with open laces, untied confidence, and somehow still get away with it.

And of course — that one friend whose mom packed a poncho big enough to shelter three kids, two school bags, and a week’s worth of feelings.

We'd arrive at school drenched, leave our shoes and socks under the fan like wet laundry, and sit through class pretending to care about photosynthesis while secretly wondering if our paper boat race at lunch would be rescheduled due to low puddle levels.

Now? My son watches one float by and gives me a TED Talk on deforestation and paper wastage.

Apparently, climate change is real. And childhood is compostable.

And then there was the DTC school bus. A moving aquarium on wheels. There were no windows, just optimism. Water flew in from every direction. The back seat had its own ecosystem. Some of us even picked our seats based on where the drips came from. (Extra splash = more cool.)

Uniforms were soaked before we even sat down, and yet we fought for that back row like it was front row at a concert. You hadn’t lived till a DTC pothole splash hit a stranger and they threw

hand gestures that could scare a ghost.

Rain somehow always made us hungrier — like thunder rang the lunch bell in our brains. All we ever needed was a ₹5 Orange Bar, a half-soggy pack of Fun Flips, and the sacred hunt for someone carrying Maggi. Honestly, it was usually cold, stuck together like a brick, but we ate it like it was gold.

And that Orange Bar? We devoured it mid-rain like it was doctor- prescribed Vitamin C — while shivering, teeth chattering, and pretending we weren’t freezing.

Today, I’ve become that mother. “Drink Haldi milk, it’s raining.” “Have some hot soup for immunity.”

And my kid looks at me like I’ve offered them boiled socks. Kids today have it all sorted. Their school buses come with upholstered seats, sealed windows, and a Bus Didi who carries an umbrella like a bodyguard on VIP duty. The AC hums softly, the ride is smoother than my morning coffee, and the only thing flying through the bus is Bluetooth— not rainwater or someone's water bottle.

They wear waterproof bags, raincoats with zippers smoother than butter, and gumboots that could survive a Himalayan expedition!

Lunch stays warm in insulated boxes. Their socks stay dry. Their bags don’t drip. They come with waterproof lining, ergonomic straps, and so much protection, even rain gives up halfway.

Their immunity comes in cute, chewable gummies that taste like dessert. And their rain? Please. They walk into it with open hair and confidence, like they’ve just stepped out of a salon commercial !

And honestly? I love that for them. Even though, I want to wrap them in three layers of protection and send an umbrella just in case the first one emotionally breaks. But , some days, I look at my kids— safely zipped up in all-weather, NASA-grade rain gear, sipping cinnamon tea from a temperature- controlled flask — and I miss the mess. I miss the wet socks, the flying umbrellas, the orange bars eaten mid-thunderstorm.

And in that moment, I want to unzip all the protection. Let them get a little wet. Laugh a little.

Slip once or twice and learn where the puddles are. Not everything needs a waterproof cover. Some childhood memories need to leak a little.