Broken umbrellas, pakoras and Shimla rains

Shimla in rains is never just about the rain — it is about the chaos it creates for children. The minute the clouds roll in, everything turns into an adventure.

One afternoon, my cousin Sushil and I, barely out of our knickers, dashed out despite my mother’s warning: “Don’t you dare get drenched!” The Mall Road glistened, tin roofs drummed with the pitter-patter, and deodars swayed.

It began with a sly drizzle. But Sushil, with the swagger of a 12-year-old, unfurled his enormous black umbrella: “British quality hai. Yeh hawa ko bhi jhelega.” A gust tore through Scandal Point and flattened it right onto our heads. We stood huddled under mangled spokes. For a moment, stunned silence — then peals of laughter, even from passers-by.

Dinesh Gupta uncle scolded: “Arre, phir se bheeg ke aaye ho? Bukhaar ho jaayega!” But Asha aunty rushed out with a towel, fussing over us.

We slipped away again, racing towards Lakkar Bazaar, slippers sloshing.

The smell of frying chhole pulled us to Sitaram’s shop. Shirts plastered with muck, we devoured lucchi, each bite bursting with taste, laughter louder than thunder. Then to Nathuram Lachhman Dass, where jalebis swirled in golden rings. I couldn’t resist — snatched one and bolted. “Oye, chor!” bhaiya roared, as bystanders clapped.

By evening, we stumbled back into Asha aunty’s kitchen, dripping like stray pups. She scolded, wiped our heads, then fed us pakoras with steaming tea. Years later, the shops remain — Trishool, Krishna Bakery, Embassy, Tibetan Market—but the voices have changed. Sushil carries files instead of umbrellas; friends are scattered across faraway cities. And yet, when mist creeps down from Jakhoo and the first drop falls on my glasses, the memories return.

For Shimla’s monsoon has never been only about rain. Umbrellas collapse, trousers ruin, jalebis vanish too quickly—but laughter, love, and warmth endure.

And in that endurance live its people — Dinesh uncle’s gentle scolding, Asha aunty’s towel and pakoras — their affection as steady as the Christ Church spire. The shops still glow, the Ridge still hums, and their warmth lingers, quiet yet unbroken.

Perhaps that is Shimla’s gift: that while seasons circle and faces scatter, its love endures — like the hills themselves, waiting, embracing, eternal.

Shimla, you are not just a place in the rain — you are the rain in memory.

Saurabh Malik, Chandigarh