A slaking of thirst, a singing of the soul
It's sheer visual poetry when lightning flashes, thunder rumbles and the heavens open up. Monsoon in each region has its distinctly own character and cadence, temper and mood...
In Kerala, legend has it that the hornbill is condemned to a relentless thirst, finding respite only when the monsoon arrives. It is said that the hornbill waits, holding its head to the skies for the first drop of rain to fall, and to roll down its throat. The truth is something else. But the hornbill is associated with a thirst for rain, and it is the hornbill I draw upon as a metaphor as I wait for the monsoon in Bangalore.
For someone who loves water, be it sea, river or rain, it is an ironic twist of destiny that I made my home in a land-locked city. Bangalore has no river to call its own. Its lakes are being filled up to make giant apartment blocks. But we do get some rain. Not the mesmerising, steady drip of the southwest monsoon, nor the menacing, pyrotechnic thunderstorms of the northeast monsoon.
What we get of the monsoon pie is a thin wedge, but like the hornbill of the legend I must be content with what rain comes my way. The summer storms begin in May after the sudden April showers. But they do not have to them the heft of rains in the monsoon months. This is a rain that wipes the dust off the leaves and causes the air to acquire a wet bite. The sun that appears thereafter is a vicious monster who drains moisture with one giant lick of yellow heat.
Early in June I begin scouring the skies. The newspapers talk about the monsoon breaking, but it takes a while for the winds to sail into Bangalore, for the rain to make itself at home. The koel’s notes echo through the air and I know the monsoon will soon be here. And then one day it happens. As I wake up to grey skies and the sibilant sounds of rain filling I know a slaking of thirst, a singing of my soul.
The parched earth drinks its fill and belches. Petrichor. The loamy fragrance of wet earth after the first rain. Tea-coloured puddles and the rainbow slick of oil on the roads. I sit by a window and watch the rain... I think I could do it for ever.
In some recess of my mind I know the monsoon brings its share of bleakness: Traffic jams that get worse as roads clog. The mustiness of damp as clothes refuse to dry. Bedraggled stray animals and the shivering homeless. It isn’t as if I can close my eyes to it. But for a little while I know I must. I must be allowed to revel in the rain.
And then, later, when the edge of my joy at the monsoon has blunted, I shall let myself dwell on the fact that the rain is for those who have a dry spot to call home; rain is for those who need not have to worry about their next meal; that rains will have us examine our social conscience.
But for now the rain must fall and I will satiate my thirst for the wetness of the rain.
Anita Nair is the bestselling author of The Better Man, Ladies Coupe, Mistress, Lessons in Forgetting, Cut Like Wound and Idris
