- Speakers
- IndraHost
Get comfortable somewhere you can stay still and close your eyes.
You step out onto the veranda of an old bungalow in Taiping just as the afternoon rain breaks.
It breaks here most afternoons.
The tiles under your feet are dry.
Everything past the roofline is not Take a deep breath.
The air is thick and cool and full of petrichor.
That heavy earthy smell of hot ground meeting the first drops.
You look past the edge of the awning.
The sky is a bruised slate gray and the rain is a solid white curtain.
It's close enough to touch and loud enough on the zinc that you can't hear anything else.
Behind you, through the open louved windows, the ceiling fan in the front room is still turning, slow against the cool air coming in.
Across the road, the old rain trees lean over the lane, their branches meeting in the middle.
Their leaves are folding shut, the way they always do when the sky goes dark.
They've been doing it longer than this house has been standing.
You reach a hand out past the roofline.
The drops are fat and warm, and they hit hard enough to feel.
You pull your hand back.
It's wet.
On the table behind you, there's a mug of coffee, still hot, dark, and sweet.
You wrap both hands around it.
The heat goes into your palms while the rain is still cool on your skin.
You sit down in the low rattan chair.
It creaks, then settles under you.
You had plans for this afternoon, and the rain has put a dash to it.
Nothing you do will move it.
Get comfortable somewhere you can stay still and close your eyes.
You step out onto the veranda of an old bungalow in Taiping just as the afternoon rain breaks.
It breaks here most afternoons.
The tiles under your feet are dry.
Everything past the roofline is not Take a deep breath.
The air is thick and cool and full of petrichor.
That heavy earthy smell of hot ground meeting the first drops.
You look past the edge of the awning.
The sky is a bruised slate gray and the rain is a solid white curtain.
It's close enough to touch and loud enough on the zinc that you can't hear anything else.
Behind you, through the open louved windows, the ceiling fan in the front room is still turning, slow against the cool air coming in.
Across the road, the old rain trees lean over the lane, their branches meeting in the middle.
Their leaves are folding shut, the way they always do when the sky goes dark.
They've been doing it longer than this house has been standing.
You reach a hand out past the roofline.
The drops are fat and warm, and they hit hard enough to feel.
You pull your hand back.
It's wet.
On the table behind you, there's a mug of coffee, still hot, dark, and sweet.
You wrap both hands around it.
The heat goes into your palms while the rain is still cool on your skin.
You sit down in the low rattan chair.
It creaks, then settles under you.
You had plans for this afternoon, and the rain has put a dash to it.
Nothing you do will move it.
The rest of this transcript — segmented and speaker-labeled, so you land on the exact moment something was said
Search every transcript — by keyword, by phrase, or by meaning, across every show Radar indexes
Trends — what is surging across podcasts, measured against its own baseline
Alerts — when a name you follow appears in a newly indexed episode
No account is needed to search Radar.