She would check on her pepper vines, which loved the damp, their black pearls beaded with water. She’d watch a troop of the rare, long-tailed Lion-tailed macaques, their wild silver manes plastered to their faces by the rain, leaping from a dripping jackfruit tree. They didn’t mind her; they were the only other souls brave enough to be out in this glorious madness.

They stayed for three days. When the road was cleared, they left, tanned not by the sun, but by the grey, beautiful light. The young man turned back at the gate. “I understand now,” he said. “The brochure was wrong.”

One afternoon, a young couple, foolish and lost, knocked on her door. They had rented a scooter, ignoring all warnings, and a landslide had blocked the main road. They were shivering, miserable, and cursing their decision.

For Neelamma, and for those few who stayed, the best season in Coorg was not the one with the clearest skies. It was the one with the deepest, greenest heart. It was the season when the land drank its fill, and for a few precious months, every soul who listened could hear it sigh with contentment.

She knew the real best season began in late June, with the arrival of the first monsoon wave.