rain rain go away

Priya stood at her apartment window, watching monsoon sheets blur the city skyline. Her grandmother's voice echoed through memory—Kannadasan's poetry about rain, loss, and longing translated into Tamil whispers during childhood visits. Back home, her mother was probably humming those same verses. Through PaybookClub's evening meetup, Priya discovered others like her: diaspora children carrying ancestral words like precious stones. They discussed how migration scattered their roots but never severed them. When rain finally paused, Priya opened her Tamil poetry collection, connecting with strangers who understood. Distance dissolved. The monsoon hadn't taken anything away. It had brought her home.