Rain is beautiful—unless you are homeless.

A raw reflection on silence, suffering, and the unseen weight of survival

Rain comes gently only for those who have a home.

For everyone else—for the ones on the streets,

the ones living under plastic, tarps, or no roof at all—

it doesn’t feel like beauty. It feels like punishment.

We often talk about rain like it's poetry.

But outside, it’s soaked biscuits, torn mattresses, and children coughing.

It’s cold water dripping into clothes that were never fully dry in the first place.

You sit by the window, sipping chai,

but just down the road, someone is watching their last matchstick die in the damp.

You post a picture with caption “cozy vibes,”

but a young boy is curled into himself under a bus stop,

trying not to cry, trying not to shiver, trying not to exist.

And the mother—

she doesn’t tell bedtime stories when it rains.

She’s not whispering to distract her child.

She’s broken. She’s silent.

She’s looking at her child’s chattering teeth,

wishing she could trade places just to give him a moment of warmth.

She has no words.

Only panic in her chest, a scream she can’t release,

and a prayer that her child doesn’t fall sick tonight.

Most nights, she doesn’t sleep.

She just stares at the puddle gathering near their sleeping spot,

thinking whether to shift or just stay and wait it out.

She’s calculating what she can afford to lose to the water—

a slipper? A bag? A family member?

This is not strength. This is survival.

And survival, especially in the rain, is cruel, messy, and quiet.

The streets don’t echo with laughter or stories during monsoons.

They echo with wet coughing, with dogs scratching at closed shutters,

with women trying to light stoves with wet firewood,

with silence full of fear.

People don’t talk much in that rain.

What is there to say?

“Where will we go now?”

“Will the kids get fever again?”

“How many nights like this till it stops?”

No answers. Just soaked skin, aching legs,

and the same old hope that tomorrow someone might care.

Even the stray animals know the drill.

They find the driest possible corner and just curl up—

quietly, without barking, without noise.

They’ve learned: no one listens in the rain.

So yes, rain is beautiful.

But only for those who have the luxury to romanticise it.

Only if you can enjoy it from behind a window,

not when it falls straight on your chest at midnight.

✍️

Rain is beautiful—unless you are homeless.

Then, it is just another way the world reminds you:

"You don’t belong."

It’s not chai and poetry.

It’s wet clothes, soaked blankets, coughing kids, and panic.

It’s mothers breaking down silently because they can’t keep their children dry.

It’s silence filled with fear, not peace.

You enjoy the rain because you can escape it.

They endure it because they can’t.

No roof. No dry clothes. No warm food.

Just the sky pouring down like it’s angry at the poor.

So next time you romanticise the rain,

remember—

it’s only beautiful when you’re not sleeping in it.