NYAC | 3min Read
Published on May 7, 2026
The Rain Riddle
The Rain Riddle
“Do you know what causes rain?” my 5-year-old brother, Jay, asked with wide-eyed curiosity.
His nose was buried in The Ul mate Playbook of Science.
I was more absorbed in my phone, where a flurry of WhatsApp no fica ons kept interrup ng
my thoughts. The MUN group was buzzing with intense discussions about the latest poli cal
drama. Meanwhile, the compe ve kids group (Yes, I, the non-quant kid, found myself
unwi ngly added to this circle of intellectual warriors) was celebra ng Nidhi’s acceptance
into Yale. And, of course, my girl gang was knee-deep in juicy gossip: Amish had developed a
crush on Kaira, but his twin brother had been caught sharing a kiss with her! I was just about
to immerse myself in these enthralling tales when my brother broke the spell.
“What makes it rain?” I repeated monotonously.
“Elina, you’ve not been listening at all,” Jay chided.
The rains had been delayed for the third consecu ve season. The harbingers of doom were
predic ng low rainfall.
“Civic body cuts water supply by 20%,” mama’s morning paper had blared. By now, Jay’s
innocent ques on had captured the household’s a en on like a magnet drawing in iron
filings.
“They married the frogs in my village last month to appease the rain gods,” our helper said
casually while mopping the floor. “But Lord Indra refused to be pleased. So now they are
performing a yagya i to placate him.”
The next morning, I was greeted by the uninvited cacophony of raindrops pa ering against
my window. Great. I would have to walk to my tui on class today like a soldier naviga ng a
minefield.
I sloshed through flooded roads, sidestepping open manholes, and waded past overflowing
gu ers.
I sighed in frustra on. What makes it rain?
In class, my a en on span resembled that of a fly. Today’s torment? Trigonometry- my
Achilles’ heel. The blackboard overflowed with acronyms and formulas.
My thoughts felt as muddied as my shoes, where a suspicious brown glob clung stubbornly to
the edge. My phone, tucked away in my pocket, buzzed faintly. The gossip group undoubtedly
had more updates.
I excused myself to the bathroom and messaged my mother.“Please send the car to pick me up.”
No response. Parental detachment is always at its zenith in moments of necessity.
“Do you want me to catch pneumonia before the math exam?”
The phrase “math exam” invariably sparked a swi response. Naturally, academics take
precedence over filial responsibility.
As I slid into the car- drenched and muddy- my thoughts wandered back to Jay’s query: “What
makes it rain?”
“In my village in Jaunpur, we spo ed the Pit Koyal ii two days ago, so I knew it would rain
today,” the driver shared affably. He came from an agricultural family and didn’t trust the
scien fic forecasts from the weatherman (which were unfailingly wrong each year).
“When the Amaltaa iii flowers bloom, rain is on the horizon,” he explained. “If the wind shi s
con nuously from south to north, more rain is guaranteed. But if it blows east to west, prepare
for a dry spell.”
I smiled to myself. The driver may not have finished school, but he was a brilliant scien st.
Armed with this newfound knowledge, I entered the house with more confidence and sought
out my brother.
“Jay, do you know what makes it rain?”
“Boooorrring. Don’t disturb me. I am making elephant toothpaste now.”
