The Last Monsoon of Mawlynnong
In the heart of Meghalaya, tucked away in mist and whispers, lies Mawlynnong—hailed as the cleanest village in Asia. But for 17-year-old Lanu, it wasn’t the cleanliness that made her village special. It was the sound of the rain on the bamboo rooftops, the scent of pinewood, and the rhythm of life that only the monsoon could bring.
This was going to be Lanu’s last monsoon in Mawlynnong. She was set to leave for Delhi for college in a month—a place where her dreams of becoming an environmental scientist could bloom. But deep inside, something tugged at her. A kind of sadness that grew stronger with every falling raindrop.
Lanu lived with her grandmother, Aitah, a strong Khasi woman with silver hair and stories wrapped in wrinkled smiles. Her parents had passed away when she was young in a landslide during a particularly fierce monsoon season. Since then, Aitah had been everything—mother, father, best friend, and guide.
One morning, the clouds had gathered early. The sky was heavy with secrets. Lanu sat on the porch, watching Aitah weaving a traditional basket.
"Aitah," she said softly, "do you think the rain remembers people?"
Aitah looked up, amused. "The rain remembers everything, child. It falls on our joys and our sorrows. It listens, it feels."
Lanu didn’t respond. She was thinking about the city, the honking cars, and streets lined with concrete. She wondered if the rain sounded the same there.
That afternoon, she took her journal and wandered down to the living root bridge—her secret place. Formed by years of patient weaving by nature and human hands, the bridge hung quietly over the lush green gorge. She sat on a rock nearby and let her feet dangle. A soft drizzle began, as if the sky had been reading her heart.
She opened her journal and wrote:
> *"Maybe I belong to the rain more than I thought. Maybe I’m afraid not of leaving, but of forgetting this sound, this scent, this feeling of being whole."*
Suddenly, she heard a voice.
“You always come here to write?”
Startled, she turned to see a boy about her age standing a few feet away. He had a satchel slung over his shoulder and a curious smile.
“Sometimes,” she replied cautiously. “Who are you?”
“Name’s Tani. I’m visiting my aunt. She runs the guesthouse up the hill.”
Lanu nodded, still unsure.
“I’m not here to bother you,” he said, backing off slightly. “Just... this place. It’s something else, isn’t it?”
She smiled faintly. “It is.”
Over the next few days, Tani kept showing up at the bridge. Sometimes he sketched, sometimes he just sat quietly. They spoke about everything—books, dreams, the noise of cities, and the silence of forests.
Lanu found herself laughing more. Tani reminded her of the sky—unpredictable, vast, and oddly comforting.
One evening, as lightning danced beyond the hills, Tani asked, “You ever thought of staying?”
She looked at him, surprised. “Here?”
He nodded.
“All the time,” she confessed. “But... I want to learn things I can’t learn here. I want to help protect this place by understanding the world outside it.”
Tani looked away, thoughtful. “Makes sense. I guess the bridge is not just made of roots... it’s also made of choices.”
That night, Lanu couldn’t sleep. She listened to the rain falling steadily on the rooftops and tried to memorize every drop. She got up and sat beside Aitah, who was sipping warm kwai.
“Aitah,” she whispered, “how do you leave something you love?”
Aitah didn’t answer immediately. She placed a hand on Lanu’s head and said, “By promising to return.”
The next morning, Tani was leaving too. His aunt had to close early due to a family emergency. He met Lanu at the bridge one last time.
“I’ll write,” he said.
“I’ll write back,” she promised.
They exchanged journals. A piece of each other, left behind in ink and paper.
A week later, Lanu stood by the bus, her bags packed. Aitah held her hand tightly. Villagers had come to say goodbye. The monsoon had eased, leaving the air cool and the roads slippery.
As the bus started moving, Lanu looked out of the window. The village, wrapped in green and love, grew smaller.
But her heart didn’t feel heavy. It felt full.
Because the rain would remember her. And she would remember the rain.
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**Reflection**
Stories like Lanu’s echo quietly across the hills of North East India—stories of leaving, of growing, of remembering. Places like Mawlynnong are not just dots on a map. They are living stories, rooted in nature and community.
In every raindrop, there’s a memory. And sometimes, leaving home isn’t about forgetting—it’s about carrying it with you in everything you do.
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