The first rains hit Mumbai!!! Yippee!!! What is it about the rains that brings out such unadulterated joy in our hearts that makes us want to prance about under the fat droplets? As a kid when I had to write an essay on 'My Favourite Season' I was confused between summer and monsoon. Winter was more or less non existent in Bhubaneswar, and spring merely lasted a fortnight or so before the unbearable heat began creeping in, hence it was easy to discard these as serious contenders for the title.
I think I did finally pick summer despite the merciless heat which reduced me to bathing four times a day, because of two reasons: A) the long vacation which left me free to read as many books as I wanted B) the gallons of ice cream I was permitted to consume. And indeed it became easy to decide then, because what could be two stronger reasons for my eight year old mind's vote of approval?
But now when I think about the same question, I have to admit the answer is different. I still face a dilemma but its now a question between the rainy season and winter. I have ended up hating summer, because vacations have long ago stopped figuring in the scheme of things, and mom isn't around to impose ice cream prohibition in seasons other than summer. That just leaves the sweltering heat which makes me feel like tearing off every scrap of clothing. Also, life has given me new experiences and I have enjoyed the beauty of a proper winter during my time in Delhi. While I hope to write an entry about that too, it will have to wait for some other time because right now I feel like writing about the glorious opening up of the heavens during the monsoon.
I loved the rains as a kid. Every time the first rains hit the dry dusty earth, I would rush out to let the drops fall on me inspite of the scolding that would inevitably follow. The heavier the rain, the better, for what good is getting wet in the rain if you don't come out of it with your clothes drenched, hair plastered to your head and every inch of skin soaked? And I would wait for the rain to die down for that indescribably delectable smell to rise up from the earth after its long awaited drink. That smell that is exactly what one imagines the earth should smell like which I much later discovered bore the name petrichor, a cold technical name that seems to do little justice to its loveliness. I loved watching the raindrops fall, gathering mass and swelling into a solid sheet that drummed upon the roof, only to taper to a spent force, weakly dripping off the window ledges, a pitter patter at a time. The trees an bushes would turn such a vivid green as to look unrealistic, but the sense of their rejoicing would be real enough. The darkened skies made me feel excited as if a reversal of day and night were happening, and the gigantic self-important storm clouds rolling ponderously into view would be nothing like their tiny white summer cousins that sailed by at windspeed. The driveway would be filled with ankle deep water after a good downpour because the drain would be clogged with dried leaves having been swept away with the eddy only to be trapped by the bars beyond which they would be straining to go. I would never fail to be delighted when this happened and would sit on the steps leading up from the driveway to the house, tearing pages from my school copybooks to fashion little boats that I would sail into the swirling brown stream. And how I hated it when my Aja took up his sturdy black umbrella and waded out to clear the clogged drain! I could never fathom why someone would want to get rid of the river that had so fortuitously sprung up in front of our home.
When I grew older, I associated monsoons with steaming chai which I was often called upon to make since my mom always said it tasted best when I prepared it. It would often be accompanied by samosas or pakodas or hot moodhi bhaja (the Oriya version of bhel :D). Cable connection would falter, electricity would be disconnected at the slightest hint of lightning but I was rarely bored. I could just sit with a book and enjoy those cold winds rushing in from every window, or during evenings mom and I would light those old style glass lanterns and candles and play verbal games. Much later in life, as I'd sit alone in a balcony or lie in bed and enjoy the rains, I'd play some santoor music or a bunch of romantic songs and they never sounded as good without the accompanying weather.
While I wax enthusiastic about the rains, I don't forget how much I hate the keechad and the stink of damp clothes and the traffic jams that multiply mysteriously during that time. I loathe being splashed with the dirtiest water imaginable while driving my Scooty as uncaring cars whiz by. I hate having to wear appropriate footwear and clothes, and I detest raincoats and can't bear their plasticky stench. But the magic of the rains washes away all those irritations and I can't help but wait each year to feel the first raindrops plop on to my outstretched palms.
Originally written on Jun 11, 2014
