Monsoon Express

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain.
— Rain, Shel Silverstein

The season of dreams in my country is drawing to a close. Eyes pregnant with expectation are trained skywards, scanning the heavens for a sign that will tell them that the long, exacting summer has been finally laid to rest. But the monsoons are not so benevolent. They do not let me into their secret garden so easily. Just like the temperamental lover you can neither live with nor stay without, they will make me grovel and beg, and when the hope in my eyes is laced with indignity and surrender, they will overwhelm me with their love, winning me over completely. Yet again.

The last few weeks are always the most difficult. Months of tormenting heat have parched the leaves by now. The grass is shrivelled up and yellow, stunted by submission. As temperatures soar all over the country, conversations seem to dwell on just one subject – the tantrums of the impending rains. News shows talk of people dying due to the prolonged heat wave, perhaps hoping that the plight of their poor countrymen will somehow convince the favourite Gods to change their minds. Politicians, having themselves assumed the role of Gods in certain parts of the country, assure their supplicants that there is nothing to worry about while they frantically consult more knowledgeable people at night regarding weekly weather forecasts. My mother, sitting rather comfortably in her air conditioned room, complains about the 48 degree days while the help sweats it out in the kitchen.

Dusty windstorms are often the vanguard of the first tropical showers. The monsoons, realising how they must put up a spectacular show in order to impress the faithfully devoted and have them keep their fingers crossed the next year, herald their arrival with thunder and pandemonium in the one of the most extravagant displays of authority and arrogance. As tree branches grumble, threatening to snap and shed their burden of responsibility, and windows rattle alarmingly, minions are instructed to bar them, lest they let in the dirt and grime of the streets into the clinical confines of plush ‘3BHK’ apartments. I remember my sister shouting for help as she frantically tried to grab the clothes drying on the terrace before the rains could deprive them of the crisp sunny smell that makes the rigmarole of washing worthwhile. Further down the road, yellow and blue barsaatis are blown off the roofs of makeshift huts, leaving one to wonder whether Nature is indeed the greatest leveller.

The fanfare subsides after an exhausting exhibition that might last a few hours. What follows next can only be described as subliminal. The heat and dust of the summer months is dowsed by the first few apprehensive raindrops. The dried and cracked mud is stripped of its obscene cover by the winds who have gotten tired of the baggage they have towed so far away from the seas. The raindrops fall, at first with much trepidation, but soon two old friends renew their love and they gleefully bathe the earth in their freshness. As I sit beside the window, munching on some pakodas, I wonder if there is word for the smell that has assumed control of my senses. I am at a loss for it has become a physical entity and it is possible to taste it in my mouth or feel it on my fingertips if I care to reach out for it. I breathe in greedy lungfuls with the hope of saving some of it for a rainy day.

There is enthusiasm and hope in the air. The raindrops are cautiously trying to trace out abstract patterns in the happy puddles that seem to have sprung up everywhere while the steady breeze is doing its best to deter them from doing so – both of them constructively engaged in game of search and destroy. The leaves now glean and shine in pride of their new rich covers, dancing in rhythm to the howling of the wind, while the drainage pipes groan under the weight of this sudden onslaught. The distant skies are coloured grey, with a dash of red, and the stagnation of my country’s summers has been washed away without the slightest hint of a protest. The streets are abuzz with activity – people running helter-skelter, trying in vain to escape being drenched; loners peeping out of their pigeonholes to get a low down on this natural spectacle; little boys dancing on the roofs, topless and carefree; and lovers shyly sharing the quintessential hot cup of tea under the chaiwalla’s tin roof.

But unlike most fairytales, this one has a sting in its tail. The romance of the first few days perishes in the wake of overflowing drains and sewage clogging the roads of haughty metropolises. Some people will probably tell you that in my country nothing comes without a price. Photographs of half-submerged buses and cars, people trudging alongside them through knee-deep waters with a very grim expression on their faces, littering the front pages of newspapers across my country seem to validate that argument. As municipalities struggle with choked storm drains, multi-coloured raincoats are dug out of old steel trunks for kids who will probably end up ditching them on their way home from school. In the remote and exotic North-East, the mighty Brahmaputra has breached its banks and submerged over a thousand villages. As little boats scurry over muddy waters with the villagers’ meagre belongings, Ministers from the national capital make an aerial inspection of the flood-affected areas, thinking of ways to scam the citizens out of yet another relief fund.

Over the next few months, the rage and intensity of the initial outpour peters down to a daily drizzle in the afternoons or evenings. Instead of fighting the country’s erratic rains, people have made their peace and learnt to take them in their stride. The markets have been inundated with a zillion varieties of that most Indian of all fruits – Mango. The rivers look plump and healthy, waiting patiently for the filth from the cities to invade their mythical sanctity, and civic authorities have finally managed to get the drains in working order. Displaced farmers in Bihar and Assam are returning to their homes and with the floods having given their lands a fresh lease of life, even they have a reason to smile. The rains have washed through several months of grumpy moods and sullen nights. It has become customary to feel upbeat, even if only for a while.

The story of the Monsoons is somewhat like the story of my country, where senses and sensibilities are constantly overwhelmed, and then subjugated. But at the end of it all, if one is left wondering what will be in store the coming year, they have done their bit in making our lives a little interesting and infinitely more unpredictable. As our cherished dreams are shattered and mutilated beyond redemption in mundane everyday struggles, the monsoons replenish the reservoirs of our hope and give us the strength to face those very battles once again. After all, if it were not for the heat and dust of my country’s summers, would we know how to appreciate the spectacle of the rains?

Post Script: Love received a fresh lease of life today. This one is for you. Again.

Tasting the Smell

The parched Earth receives an honoured guest,
An exacting summer has been finally laid to rest.

We got the first shower of the season here last night. It was, due to lack of better words, an amazing feeling. I felt the happiest in ages. Like the rain had somehow washed away through several layers of grumpy moods and sullen nights. Like it did not matter whether you had a reason to smile or not. Like it was customary to feel upbeat. No matter how many times you have experienced them, the Monsoons never fail to make your life exciting with the umpteen tantrums that are such an essential part of their story. You always look up at them just like the kid who collects pebbles on the seashore. You plead, cajole, beg, and when you have finally given up on them in a fit of anger, they make their appearance, just like that moody lover you can neither live with, nor stay without.

The strong winds just before the showers had already suggested that the much awaited rains would finally grace Gujarat with their presence. It was an arrival much delayed and overly debated. The sun was beating its hammer on the anvil with a hitherto unknown fury. Months of tormenting heat had by now parched the leaves. The grass had shriveled up and turned yellow. Even the squirrels had taken refuge somewhere. The usually chirpy and upbeat Ashok Bhai at The Galla had said today in desperation, “Bahut time ho gaya hai. Ab to barsaat ho jaani chahiye”. I had merely nodded my head in a sagely fashion, looked up at the barren skies, and meekly agreed with the prevailing opinion. Having made my ignorance on the subject public, I had quietly exited the scene. But as they say, all’s well that ends well. The Guest of Honour almost always makes an appearance in style.

I had rushed out, quite unlike me, to witness it first hand. Just about when the winds had gotten tired of the baggage they had been towing from the Indian Ocean. “To hell with protocol”, they finally muttered under their breath and let go of it. The raindrops fell. They were a bit shy at first and treaded the ground with much apprehension. The dried mud was stripped of its cover. Bit by bit. Soon enough, however, both the friends had made their acquaintance and the raindrops gleefully bathed the earth in their freshness. The smell of wet earth proved to be a great mood-lifter. In the strictest sense of the term. It was a physical entity then. You could taste it in your mouth and feel it on your fingertips if you cared to reach out for it. I breathed in lungfuls with the hope of saving some of it for a rainy day (no pun intended here).

There were happy puddles everywhere. The raindrops carefully trying to trace out abstract patterns in them. While the strong breeze doing its best in order to deter them from doing so. Both of them constructively engaged in game of search and destroy. The leaves gleaned and shone with pride in their new rich covers while the drainage pipes groaned under the weight of the sudden onslaught. The distant skies were coloured red for some unknown reason. The hostel corridors were soon abuzz with activity. People running helter skelter. Some running to grab the clothes hanging on the lines, while some peeping out of their pigeonholes to get a low down on the natural spectacle. Some of us were wise enough to rush to the terraces, topless and screaming. While the most inane of our variety hung around near the balconies, trying to wring a poem out of the entire melodrama.

It ended almost as soon as it began. But the few minutes it lasted, it seemed as if the world was at its peace with itself. The feeling was contagious and it caught on to me. Hung on to me like a stubborn child. I smiled and stood in the balcony for a few minutes, still trying to save some vestiges of that saundhi mitti in my nicotine marred lungs. When I finally reached the conclusion that it was not physically feasible, I returned to the confines of my mustard walls. But the Monsoons had one final surprise waiting for me. For they had decided to paint my room in a rich hue which was just the same as the one I had been trying so hard to save in my lungs. I thanked someone inwardly and set out to tell you about it.

PS - The title owes its existence to Miss Lyme. Khush?