Monsoons have always evoked a mixed response in my mind. While at times I loved the rainy season like no other, there were other times when I felt that it was most annoying. In short, I have shared a love hate relationship with the rains.
In my early childhood, a good heavy rain was always welcome because it meant that the school would declare a holiday on account of the rain, what we students popularly called a rain holiday. And even if the school authorities failed to do so, the supreme authority in my world then, my mom, would ask me to stay home on such occasions. This meant an unexpected, and very welcome extra holiday, in which there would be no homework. I could play or read story books as I pleased and enjoy all the deliciously hot and fresh home-cooked food! I felt that it was simply heavenly!
Then, as I grew into my teens, my mother was extra cautious that I should not catch any cold, fever or other unpleasant by-products of getting wet. So that stifled any romantic notions on my part of getting drenched in the rains.
Once I started going to work, I realized that even the heaviest of rains would not ensure the extra rain holiday. I started feeling that rains are bothersome and only made attending work so much more cumbersome. I lived in Bombay in those days. I had to change 2 buses to reach my place of work. A raincoat was a must if I had to reach my work place decently dry. But that also meant that I had to take it off every time I boarded the bus and the water would drip all over the place, or if I chose to keep it on, the seat would get wet, preventing anybody else to be able to use it after I left. This would invite nasty and disdainful looks from co-passengers, and justifiably so! Using an umbrella alone was not a viable option, because you would anyway end up being soaked through and through, with the pouring water attacking you from all sides. I would curse the work ethics of the place which expected one to turn up for work as usual, irrespective of the severity of the downpour.
Some more years elapsed, and I became more and more resigned to the vagaries of nature. Frankly, at that point in life, I had no time or mind space to dwell on mere matters like weather and seasons and so forth. If a work had to be done, you assumed it had to be done. You had no option either way. But then, I was re-introduced to the romance of the rains by my daughter, who had just entered her teens. On one such monsoon day, when it was raining cats and dogs, she pulled me and my younger daughter by the hand and took us on to the terrace.
In a matter of minutes, we were thoroughly drenched. She then held my hands and twirled gleefully in the rain. Her enthusiasm was so infectious that I forgot to admonish her, as I should have done as a responsible parent. Instead, I giggled and laughed with abandon, partaking her joy in soaking in the rain water, till I was rudely called back to my senses by my ever- practical husband. So, we hurried down and wiped dry and changed into dry clothes. Of course, it was a bother trying to dry so many wet clothes when there was no sunshine.
It also fell to my lot to make the mandatory hot pakodas and masala chai that such weather demanded. But it was all worthwhile just looking at the unadulterated joy and happiness on my daughter’s countenance, which was only possible at that age, when life looks so full of promise and possibilities of all manner!
A few more years down memory lane—
Hyderabad, the city where we lived, expanded exponentially in the span of a couple of decades. Buildings sprouted from anywhere and everywhere, belying the existence of any planning whatsoever. Rains now meant water-logging, which was unheard of in the city a few years back. Rains also meant traffic snarls, and loss of precious time while we waited impatiently to get to our destination. They also meant interminable hours of worry, which only a parent can experience, whenever the children were delayed in reaching home. Those were the pre-mobile times, and therefore there was no way of communication in case of any contingency. The mind would imagine the worst, and whenever, they turned up safe, I would heave a sigh of relief and send a silent prayer to the merciful God above.
Fast forward to the present day:
We now live in a quaint mountain town called Mount Abu. It is by far, the most picturesque place that I have lived in. We shifted here after I retired from service in Hyderabad. I was lucky that I had the opportunity of serving the poorest of poor, the tribal men, women and children of Rajasthan. However, this entailed travel of up to 150 km on any given day through the villages of Rajasthan. This also gave me the opportunity to view nature from close quarters.
During my first year, during the summer, I was disappointed at the arid and brown landscape that greeted me during my travels. I had a small team of people native to this region to help me with my dealings with the tribal people. When I expressed my disappointment, I was assured by my team that this was a temporary phenomenon, and it would all change with the advent of rains. I was sceptical but kept quiet. ‘This is Kashmir of Rajasthan madam’, they proclaimed proudly! I was cynical and it was as much as I could do to stop myself from laughing at this suggestion, which at the time sounded quite preposterous!
And then the rains came. And lo and behold! The brown landscape was transformed into luxuriant green. I could not fathom where all this vegetation was hiding before the advent of the rains. I could only marvel at the mysteries of nature!
As the monsoon progressed, and it started to rain in earnest, the rivers filled up, the dams overflowed; the Nakki lake was full to the brim. Mountain streams were gushing out of every nook and cranny, alongside the tortuous road that took us down the hill. It was one of the prettiest sights I had ever witnessed.
Of course, all through the journey, my co-workers regaled me with horror stories of how the bridge near Gabbar got submerged every year, how vehicles were drawn into the flowing water, and other similar disaster stories. I refused to let these distract me from the pleasures that the sights had to offer, and kept clicking pictures as we went along.
‘We can hardly see the road. Isn’t it difficult to drive in these weather conditions?’, I once enquired of the driver of our vehicle. ‘It is ok madam. Normally also we don’t see beyond the bend on the road. Now it is a little less than that but vehicles have their headlights on. So, that way, it is safer now than in normal conditions’, said the driver nonchalantly. I digested this information and tried to absorb the philosophy and feel reassured.
Today, having resigned my job because my body started protesting against the arduous daily commute, I have more leisure to watch, appreciate and enjoy the monsoon of Mount Abu. I sit in the balcony of my house and see the clouds pass by, caressingly close to me. The tall palm tree which is gently swaying in the morning breeze suddenly vanishes from sight, being covered in a cloud of mist.
I blink my eyes, and when I open them again, there it is in front of my eyes again, swaying and teasing. The same is true of the major Shaitan Singh memorial of which we enjoy an uninterrupted view from our balcony. Today it has become invisible, draped in a curtain of mist. It feels as if these familiar sights are playing hide and seek with me, aided and abetted by nature at its mischievous best!
The clouds look inviting and I decide to take a short walk in their company. As I take to the road, I am completely enveloped on all sides by the clouds. I am reminded of Narad muni from mythological movies I watched in my childhood. I remember the scene in which the sage descends from the heavens surrounded by the clouds. I am amused at my reminiscence.
I give wings to my imagination. I imagine that a sinister face is creeping up from behind the clouds and will appear at any moment, scaring me out of my wits. I quickly dispel such unpleasant thoughts and turn to something more pleasant and romantic. Immediately the image of a young Dev Anand rises in front of my eyes, cap in hand, arms flailing, head nodding, looking as handsome as ever!I can almost hear the song on his lips in my mind, ‘tu kahan, ye bata…’ . I try to savour the moment by briefly closing my eyes.
When I open my eyes again, I find that the sun is peeping out from the clouds, quickly dispersing them and breaking the magical spell. I marvel at the strength of his energy, which is able to change the scenario in a matter of moments, and offer my salutations in a silent prayer. Having done that, I turn homeward, feeling energized and exhilarated!
written by
Dr. A Shyamala, Hyderabad
