Can a sip of tea cure rainy-day blues?

It’s been days.

Each morning starts with a glance out the window to see if the sun came up. It never fully does. Dusk all the way.

And when evening comes, it’s a scene from the old Sherlock books – dark streets with flickers of light drawn from faulty lamp posts and sidewalks so invisible that anyone in the neighbourhood trudging through the stream tends to look like they can walk on water.

The rain has settled in.

It has taken over conversations, travel plans and daily routines. Every phone screen carries another video of a familiar street transformed into a river. Every morning begins with the same question: how bad is it outside today?

On a hot summer day, we long for it. We wait for the brief romance of watching clouds gather above us, for the first drops to break the heat, for the smell of wet earth to rise from the ground.

There’s a word for it too – petrichor – a fragrance I wish I could save in a bottle.

A disruption

The mood changes when the drizzle overstays its welcome, like a house guest you can’t get rid of, even bringing in bed-ridden flu and sniffles.

After spending the weekend soaking all that in, I took a moment to step outside last night. And there it was. A cascade of brown waters. Not in the poetic way O. Henry described long, beautiful locks, but rather what brown sounds like – a muddy waterbed swallowing the streets. Not a scene from the movies, but from the actual photos and videos people have been posting online of their own neighbourhoods. Knee-deep. No; waist-deep water. One step out the door was one deep dive into a stream. I didn’t know where my foot would land.

No rickshaws in sight. One other woman was stranded at the intersection across from me. I had the urge to tell her to watch out for potholes. A teenager walked confidently through the stream. No fear of electrocution. Not even snakes.

Finally, a rickshaw came into sight. I simply asked, “Can you drop me somewhere where there’s no flooding?” He looked at me and said, “Which world would that be?” 

Within minutes of me getting on, he asked another question. “How is this flood treating you?” 

He must have noticed the awe-struck grin on my face. It wasn’t joy. I was just in disbelief. Baffled that, to this day, a full day of deluge can completely turn a city into a stream. That roads we walk on every day can disappear underneath. That a familiar neighbourhood can suddenly become unfamiliar. That strangers who would normally pass each other without a word now share the same flood story.

This changes cities, and people too. Some are too occupied, toiling away through day-to-day activities – managing impossible commutes to and from work, running errands or handling emergencies. For them, it is not about mood. It is an obstacle to overcome.

But for those indoors and homebound, there is a different experience. They have time to themselves. Time to watch the drops falling outside their window. Time to make something out of the downpour. For many, that something begins with a kettle.

A reminiscence

A cup of tea has a strange way of becoming a motif as you walk down memory lane. It becomes a quiet discovery of self – of the moments, places and people that shaped the way we find comfort.

Rainy afternoons often call for their own rituals. One of them is holding an aesthetic ceramic between your hands as steam curls into the room, and with it, letting your thoughts sway.

In that lucid moment, the present gently gives way to the past. You find yourself returning to when this token of love was shared in company – when a little pocket of warmth was enough to entitle you to a tranquil joy and comfort no other pastime could bring.

You reminisce about those rickshaw rides with a loved one. Rain filled your eyes. You both looked like an exasperated cat being bathed, drenched and helpless against the weather, yet somehow enjoying every moment of it. There was still a burst of excitement taking off amidst the wild pursuit of thunder and lightning.

You didn’t care how soaked you were, or how messy the roads became, as long as they led to that one stall in Puran Dhaka where you could enjoy a glass filled with more malai than chaa. Or that one corner in Lalmatia that sells the best malta chaa you’ve ever had. Or that one corner in Gulshan 2 where dudh chaa is served even at 2am – the kind of place where conversations linger long after the last sip.

Perhaps that is what rain does. It does not only bring water down from the sky; it brings back versions of ourselves we thought we had left behind.

The child who waited for school to be cancelled because of rain.

The teenager who found an excuse to step outside with friends under a grey sky.

The girl who sat beside someone special in the verandah, sharing an evening brew while the world disappeared behind a curtain of rain.

A plate of hot pakoras or shingara.

A bowl of steaming khichuri with the sound of rain as background music.

Some memories do not need much to return.

A literal “SAD” affair

But this is not only nostalgia. And perhaps the grey skies are not only playing with our mood, but with our biology too.

Less sunlight can actually affect serotonin, a chemical we know to be associated with feelings of well-being, while encouraging the body to produce more melatonin, leaving us feeling sleepier, slower and less energised.

For most, the heaviness passes when brighter skies return.

But for some, the prolonged absence of sunlight can contribute to something called a Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). This is known to be a form of depression linked to seasonal changes.

But perhaps hormones tell only part of the story.

Rain, as we know it, slows the world. It gives us permission to pause. To sit by the window without feeling guilty. To finally watch that movie we have been saving for a quiet evening. To revisit old songs – the ones that carry memories from another time and let nostalgia blend with the sound of rain hitting the glass. 

It is the weather for comfort. For a favourite blanket. For a book left unfinished on the bedside table. For a warm meal that feels like a hug. 

What other choice do we have than to soak it all in? 

Perhaps call someone we love, someone we haven’t spoken to in a while. Put on a nostalgic playlist. Watch a feel-good genre movie or TV show. Cook our favourite meal. Let ourselves enjoy the rare stillness. 

The world outside may not have changed. The streets have yet to dry. Tomorrow’s commute may bring its own challenges. But for now, I walk into the kitchen. The kettle goes on. I find comfort in this small ritual – the sound of water beginning to boil, the way tea leaves slowly surrender their dark amber to hot water, the way the aroma fills the room, and the quiet clink of a spoon against a cup, I then take to my desk. The laptop opens. The work begins again. The rain continues its rhythm in the background as I take the first sip.