I  was on my knees after falling to the ground in a game of kho-kho during lunch break at school. It was raining, and as I struggled to my feet, I could get a uniquely pleasing scent that distracted my seven-year-old self from the pain and blood that had begun to ooze from my right knee. I can still recall that distinct smell of the wet earth to this day, apart from the scar that I still carry on my right knee from that fall. The annual rain ritual of getting down and dirty on the playground in my housing society with friends, was a must to welcome the first showers, with several games of cricket or badminton in the downpour. Fun days, and not-so-fun sermonising from the mother after those carefree hours in the outdoors, it all made for a wholesome childhood where we cherished simple gifts like walks to the nearby hill, or a school picnic to Powai and Vihar Lakes with curiosity and broad smiles.

A few years later, while skimming through the pages of the Oxford Dictionary perched on our family bookshelf, I was thrilled to stumble upon the term given for that pleasant whiff emanating from the first rain. It’s called petrichor. Somewhere along the way, my connection [and I am guessing for many from my generation] with that ‘ground reality’ began to move further away. The odd monsoon trek or hike during weekends as a collegian would be the closest I’d come to experiencing that whiff all over again. Once I donned the work cloak, it became a rarity; the stars had to align, the universe had to give its mighty nod to escape for a monsoon getaway to revive those happy-go-lucky monsoon moments.