We don’t have seasons as in the West. No snowdrifts, golden leaves, cherry blossoms, or pumpkin spice. However, I still have a favorite season.

It arrives gradually and without fanfare.

The sky goes from bright to bruised. The heat intensifies and eventually turns into rain. I can always feel it in my body before it happens, a certain aching and restlessness. The monsoon.

Some people dread it. The damp laundry, flooded drains and floods, and the wet days. But me? I wait for it.

The monsoon season is the one time when I feel like the world slows down enough to breathe. When the rain beats against the zinc roof and the windows fog up, I feel my inner loosening. It allows me to pause.

It reminds me of my kampung days, when we ate durian under the awning as the rain fell sideways. When I would lie on the floor with a book while my sisters listened to the radio.

Now in the city, I’m still waiting for it. I still write or create my best work when the sky is gray. I’m still craving hot Milo and stillness the rain brings. It’s the time of year when I return to the page with less hesitation and my memories seem more vivid.

So, no, I don’t have a favorite season, such as autumn or spring. I have a favourite sky and rain. A season that lives inside me rather than outside.

And when it arrives, I know who I am again.

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