The monsoon seasons bring the most joy. The scent of wet earth, the rhythm of raindrops tapping on rooftops, and the feeling of the world being washed clean, it was magic. But more magical than all of this were the stories my grandma used to tell.
She would sit by the window with her knitting, her silver hair glowing softly in the dim light, and tell me stories of water fairies. “They come only when it rains,” she’d whisper, eyes twinkling. “They help the plants who suffer from too much water. You can only see them if you truly believe.”
As a child, I believed with all my heart. I imagined tiny winged creatures with dewdrop eyes and silver gowns, flitting from leaf to leaf, whispering comfort to drowning flowers. I wanted to see them. I needed to.
One stormy afternoon, the clouds cracked open with lightning and then rolled back a little, letting through a streak of sunlight, gold and soft like honey. I took it as a sign. This was it. The fairies were here.
Armed with a magnifying glass, my raincoat, and a small leather journal, I stepped into the garden, heart thudding with excitement. Raindrops danced around me like playful spirits. I crouched beside a soaked marigold and peered closely, waiting.
Then I saw it.
Not a fairy, but a caterpillar, curling itself under a leaf to avoid the water. I looked around more carefully. A line of ants worked together to lift a soaked breadcrumb to safety. A snail slowly glided over the wet soil, trailing silver behind it. A butterfly, its wings clumped from the rain, clung desperately to a stem, waiting for warmth.
I sat still. Watching. Learning. The fairies weren’t what I thought they’d be.
The true magic wasn’t in mythical creatures, but in the strength of tiny lives. The garden was filled with helpers, worms loosening the wet earth so roots could breathe, frogs hopping through puddles to eat up insects that harmed the leaves, bees still hovering, bravely seeking shelter. Even the rain itself, I realised, was a kind of fairy, it fed, cleaned, and healed.
Suddenly, the idea of “suffering plants” made sense. Too much rain could drown them, break them, uproot them. But nature, quiet, resilient, and wild, had its own guardians. No wings, no wands, just will and wisdom.
I scribbled in my notebook, not about fairies with magic dust, but about caterpillars, worms, and bees. I gave them names and imagined them with secret jobs. “Guardian of the Petals,” “Protector of the Soil,” “Messenger of the Storm.”
When I returned home, drenched but glowing, Grandma looked up and smiled.
“Did you see them?” she asked.
I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “And they were more beautiful than I ever imagined.”
She didn’t ask more. She only patted the cushion next to her and began another story. I leaned into her shoulder, my heart full of wonder, and listened not just to her words, but to the whisper of rain, and to the quiet, steady magic of the world outside.