A Journey of rain and roots, from desert winds to rainy breezes-My Homecoming trip

When the Rains Called Me Home: A Monsoon Escape from Dubai to Kerala.

Sometimes, life gives us subtle nudges, but other times, it sends an undeniable call — the kind you can’t ignore. For me, it was the rains. After months of Dubai’s sun-soaked days, where the sky often feels like a sheet of glass stretched endlessly, I found myself longing for the wild, unstructured beauty of a monsoon. And when Kerala called me with its first showers, I knew I had to go.

Living in Dubai has its own rhythm—fast, efficient, and dazzling in its modernity. Life here is fast, structured, sun-soaked, and glittering with malls, skyscrapers, and endless highways. The city never sleeps, yet sometimes it feels like it never pauses either. Days melt into each other under the unrelenting sun, and life feels like a well-polished machine running on deadlines and routines. Dubai is a marvel in its own right — the glittering skyline, the desert sands that glow golden, the sea that shimmers under the sun. But there is something about living in a place where rains are rare and fleeting, You begin to miss the scent of earth after it drinks the first drops of water, the rhythm of rain on rooftops, the grey skies that demand introspection.

When the humidity in Dubai grew heavy and the heart began yearning for a pause, I booked my ticket to Kerala. Not for luxury, not for adventure, but for surrender — to the rains, to memories, to home. But deep inside me, a part of my heart always longs for something raw, something unpolished, something I grew up with—Kerala in the rains. Being in Dubai I had almost forgotten what real rain felt like. Yes, we get the occasional drizzle, but the desert sky rarely opens up in all its fury. Yet, somewhere deep within, I missed the earthy smell of wet soil, the sound of raindrops drumming on rooftops, and the sight of trees washed clean, glowing in shades of emerald. So when the monsoon season began its yearly symphony, I packed my bags and flew home.

As the plane descended into Kochi, I pressed my face against the window like a child. Green stretched out in every direction, lush and unapologetic. Coconut palms swayed with the wind, rivers overflowed with life, and the skies were painted in fifty shades of grey. The first breath of monsoon air hit differently. It wasn’t just oxygen — it was nostalgia, healing, and a quiet reminder that sometimes, slowing down is the most urgent need. Stepping out of Kochi airport, I was embraced by an old, familiar fragrance—the scent of wet earth. It’s a smell you can never find in Dubai’s desert air. The first gust of monsoon breeze touched my face, carrying with it a thousand memories: of walking to school under a leaky umbrella, of paper boats sailing in the roadside streams, of huddling with cousins in candlelight during power cuts. The roads glistened with puddles, coconut palms leaned low as if whispering secrets to the monsoon clouds, tea shops steamed with the aroma of chai and banana fritters, and everywhere I looked, Kerala seemed freshly bathed, dressed in a hundred shades of green. Everything was familiar, yet new—as if the rains had washed away time and given me back pieces of my own past. The smell of wet earth rose like an embrace, and suddenly I was no longer a visitor from Dubai but a child of Kerala again. Every drop of rain on the tiled roofs seemed to tell me: Welcome home.

Kerala during the rains is a living poem. The backwaters, dotted with houseboats, looked like they were wrapped in misty secrets. Children ran barefoot through puddles while elders sat on verandas, watching the rain as if it were an old friend who had finally returned. Everywhere I went, the monsoon seemed to follow me like a companion. In Varkala, the cliffside cafés looked over a restless sea, waves crashing harder than usual as the rain stitched silver threads across its surface.  The sea roared like it had secrets to spill, louder under the weight of the skies. The cliffs wore a darker green, dripping with rainwater, as though nature had painted them afresh. I sat at a café, overlooking the restless waves, watching raindrops merge with the ocean. It felt as though the sea itself was crying, and I was simply keeping it company. In Ashtamudi, the backwaters turned into mirrors, reflecting not just the skies but also the inner calm that had begun to settle in me. It reflected the swollen skies, whispering serenity into my restless heart, the backwaters turned into liquid mirrors. The rain drew ripples that travelled endlessly, as though time itself had slowed down. Cruising through those waters, I felt my own restlessness dissolve. For the first time in months, I wasn’t chasing hours — I was simply being carried, as gently as a leaf floating downstream. In Athirapilly the rain is nothing short of magic. The mighty waterfall, already known as the “Niagara of India,” became even more alive when the monsoon arrived. Sheets of water tumbled down with a force that silences everything else — except the rain, which joins in like a companion drumming on leaves, rocks, and earth. The air is heavy with mist, cool against the skin, carrying the fragrance of wet soil and wild forests. Standing there, drenched in spray, you feel small and infinite at once. The rain doesn’t just fall at Athirapilly — it weaves itself into the roar of the waterfall, into the lush green hills, into your very breath.

It is not just a place to see, but a place to feel — a reminder of how raw, powerful, and healing nature can be when it rains without restraint.

It struck me then — rains are not just water falling from the sky. They are forgiveness, they are release, they are renewal. Each drop seemed to peel away layers of exhaustion I didn’t even know I was carrying. The kind of fatigue that city life plants in you quietly, until you’re too tired to notice you’re tired. In Kerala, the rains demanded nothing from me. They didn’t ask me to be productive, polished, or perfect. They only asked me to feel. And I did, Deeply. There was something therapeutic about sitting by the window, listening to the downpour without interruption. No deadlines, no meetings, no city noise — just the sound of rain. It reminded me that nature has its own rhythm, and sometimes, the best thing we can do is align with it. In Dubai, I am always chasing time. In Kerala, the rains slowed me down, and I finally allowed myself to just be.

Coming Back with the rain Inside Me: When it was finally time to leave, I felt a tug deep within. I carried a heaviness in my heart. Not sadness, but a quiet gratitude. The rains had washed me clean — of fatigue, of restlessness, of the constant pressure to keep moving forward. As I boarded my flight back to Dubai, I realized something: even though the desert skies may not offer monsoon showers, the calm, the softness, and the stillness of Kerala’s rains now lived inside me. Sometimes, when I close my eyes in Dubai and hear the faint hum of the AC, I imagine it as the sound of rainfall. As the plane rose above Kerala, I looked down at the drenched land, its rivers swollen and its trees glistening, and I knew I was leaving behind more than just a place. I was leaving behind a version of myself that belonged entirely to the rains.

But here’s the secret the monsoon gave me — rains don’t just belong to Kerala. They belong to anyone who carries them inside. Back in Dubai, the skies may remain unbroken, the heat may stretch endlessly, but I now know where to turn when the thirst returns. All I have to do is close my eyes, and I am back there again: on the cliffs of Varkala, by the backwaters of Ashtamudi, under the mighty waterfalls of Athirapilly, under a roof that sings with the rhythm of rain. The rains had called me, and I had answered. And in their embrace, I found myself again. And in return, they gifted me something I could carry, even across the seas.

As the rains washed the earth, they also watered my roots — reminding me that no matter where I wander, I will always belong to the soil that first taught me how to bloom.