The Weather Conversation Conspiracy

Or: How I Became That Person Who Photographs Clouds

I knew something had changed when I found myself in a deep conversation about clouds — with the postman. Neither of us had a meteorology degree. But there we were, earnestly dissecting the sky like it had just made a controversial political statement. That’s when I realised: I’ve been fully inducted into Britain’s unofficial national pastime — talking about the weather like it owes us rent.

Just last week, I caught myself saying — with actual emotion — “Shame about the grey rolling in after such a lovely morning.” I was talking to my husband, who looked up from stirring a pot of curry like I’d just delivered bad news from the bank. The skies had turned. And so, apparently, had I.

Mumbai Weather: Three Settings, No Fuss

Back in Mumbai, weather didn’t deserve this kind of emotional attention. It had three settings:

1. Trying to roast you alive,

2. Trying to drown you, and

3. Briefly tolerable.

That was it. No drama. No app-checking. No “chance of light showers” — just full-blown climate mood swings you accepted like a moody landlord. My mum, still living in Mumbai, likes to say, “At least Mumbai weather doesn’t pretend to be nice. You always know where you stand.”

She’s right. Summers meant stepping outside was a slow-cook method. No one needed to say,“Hot today.” It was obvious. You just glared at the sun like it had insulted your mother, and carried on. If someone did say something, it was more like,“AC chalu hai na?” (“Is the air con working?”)

And the monsoon? Forget gentle drizzles and poetic reflections. If you saw clouds forming over the Gateway of India, you knew Marine Drive would soon be an oceanfront experience — and not in the fun way. My aunties would call each other not to chat, but to compare localised flooding reports like weather correspondents:
"Arrey, water up to the compound wall already — and it’s only been ten minutes!"

There was no pondering the emotional implications of the rain. You just checked if your lane had become a river and planned your life accordingly.

Meanwhile in London...

Then I moved to London, and suddenly, weather became the main character. It’s not just something that happens — it’s something that’s performed. Here, a five-minute patch of sunlight is met with applause, outfit changes, and public picnics. If the sun so much as glints off a window, my husband opens the blinds like it’s a royal visit.

I still remember my first winter here. I sent a photo of bare trees and grey skies to my 21-year-old daughter back in Mumbai, who replied with a single emoji: 😐. She didn’t get it. Why would she? In Mumbai, you don’t stand around admiring trees shedding leaves. To be honest, I don’t think, we would have got ‘Falling Autumn Leaves’ if Vincent Van Gogh would have lived in India.

But here in the UK? Every leaf is an event. Every season has a personality. Spring shows up like it’s apologising for being late. Summer is a full-blown emotional breakdown of hope, betrayal, and sunscreen. Autumn — okay, I’ll admit it — is stunning. Even my teenage son, who barely looks up from his phone unless there’s food or Wi-Fi, once said,“Kinda cool, those red leaves.” Which, from him, is basically a sonnet.

Winter is where the British really shine, though. Everyone gets properly grumpy. The conversations get honest. No one’s pretending. We bond over how dark it gets at 4 PM, like we’re all in on the same cosmic joke.

Weather as Emotional Currency

In Mumbai, if you said “lovely day,” it meant it wasn’t actively trying to kill you. Here, “lovely” means not raining and some form of light appeared. The bar is low, and we still cheer when we clear it.

I once told my mum it was “a bit nippy” and she said, “Nippy? What is that — biscuit or weather?” I tried explaining, but honestly, even I don’t know anymore. There’s a word for every temperature shift here. “Crisp,” “brisk,” “chilly,” “fresh” — they all mean: “You’ll regret not bringing a scarf.”

And the rain. Oh, the rain. It has nuance. “Spitting” is when the sky is being passive-aggressive. “Misting” is when it’s haunting your day. “Proper rain” is when you need to cancel your optimism.

My daughter, back in Mumbai, laughs when I say things like, “We had hail today!” To her, weather is still a blunt instrument. She’ll message me, “Power’s gone, it’s raining sideways,” and I’ll respond with a picture of the sky in London and something ridiculous like, “Dramatic cloudscape over the Thames today.” And she’ll be like, “Who have you become, mother?”

The Slow Infection

And it’s spreading. I now check the weather app multiple times a day. My mood changes based on cloud formations. I’ve taken actual photos of the sky and sent them to friends with comments like, “Look at this moody light!”

Sometimes I use weather to justify my state of mind. “Can’t be productive today — look at this fog.” My husband, who’s taken to being a house-husband (and, if I’m honest, weather therapist), just nods and says, “Classic low-pressure funk. Want some chai?”

The worst part? I’ve even started planning my emotional bandwidth around the forecast. If the weather app says “sunny spells,” I schedule errands. If it says “grey and damp,” I pre-load carbs and lower expectations.

Weather as the Great Equaliser

And yet, weirdly, I’ve come to love it. There’s something democratic about British weather. It doesn’t care how much money you have, what your postcode is, or whether you pronounce “scone” correctly. It’s coming for you anyway. The Queen used to get rained on just like the rest of us. That’s sort of... comforting.

And back in Juhu (Mumbai), the monsoon still floods the footpaths and stalls the rickshaws, rich or poor. That’s something my aunties and I agree on — weather is one of the few things that doesn’t discriminate. Either your slippers float down the street or they don’t.

Falling in Love with Grey

The most surprising thing? I’ve started finding beauty in things I used to ignore. The way light shifts through low-hanging clouds. The million shades of grey (none sexy). The drama of a sudden burst of sunshine. I stood near Tower Bridge the other day, watching the sky shift like theatre — and I just… stood there. In awe. Of the sky.

I never did that in Mumbai. Not even during the most dramatic monsoons at Marine Drive. There, I was too busy protecting my umbrella from turning into a kite.

But here, I find myself still. Watching. Feeling. Noticing.

Bilingual in Weather

I live between weather worlds now. I can talk about monsoons with nostalgic respect, and also discuss London’s seasonal moods with a surprising degree of passion. I’ve become weather-bilingual. Mumbai taught me to endure. London’s taught me to observe.

In the end, that bus stop chat wasn’t really about the clouds. It was an invitation — to join this quiet, collective ritual of acknowledging that we’re all just humans under this big, temperamental sky.

And now, if you’ll excuse me — the clouds are doing something interesting over the garden, and I think I might just go photograph them.

Don’t judge me.

I’ve become one of them.

And honestly?

It’s not so bad.