Image via WikipediaImagine being covered in a wet blanket that is hot. Your limbs are slow to move and everything is an effort. It feels like thunder but the sky is empty. Everybody is tetchy, quick to argue. There is nowhere other than a roof top to feel some air.
And then... a single fat drop of water comes from the sky, followed by another and another until the deluge seems imminent. And you go outside and smell the rain and feel its coolness soak your clothes and hair and you laugh. The monsoon has come.
The Rains Came: A Novel of Modern India
tells of time of waiting for the monsoon and as a teenager it was one of my favourite books,deeply torrid romance and a brilliant film.
For the poor of the great city it brought both relief and misery, the cleansing water giving relief but the flooding that ensued gave misery to many whose only home was a shack made of cardboard or a large pipe that turned into a river with the floods
For us as children it was sheer magic. Floods ankle/knee deep to be waded through with screams of delight. A friend had a blow up dinghy which we paddled down Burdwan Road feeling like great explorers
My old school had had its gates forced open be the floods and we went inside to see desks and chairs bobbing merrily in the muddy water.
Once, on our way back from Tollygunge, the skies opened and faster than we could drive the road in front of us flooded. My friend Shashi was driving, the usual mob in the back: Harish, Darius, Annabel, Pomi and me. The car stalled - the boys offered 'helpful advice', Annabel and Pomi and me got out and started to push through the ever deepening puddles. Finally the boys got the message and we pushed and pushed and pushed, past the lakes across Chowringhee and then the engine sputtered into life and like the film 'Little Miss Sunshine' we ran to catch up and jump in.
I don't know why it is such a joyous memory, something about the sheer desparation, the mother of all rows between Shashi and Harish (she was always fiery), the being soaking wet or just the laughter as we kept on pushing and the laughter we caused from rickshaw wallahs and street vendors that made it a moment of pure joy.
In a city built on marsh land the water tries hard to reclaim its old ways and the river, Hooghly, the artery of the city swells alarmingly. Once or twice a year there is a bore tide, where the tide rushes form both ends of the river to meet in clash of waves up to seven feet high. It is possible even when standing on a rooftop safely some distance from the water to feel a real fear that the river continue to rise and the wave will take us all.
And then of course, the Monsoon races, I received an announcement yesterday that they were due to start. These were not the cold weather fashion parades, but still the RCTC provided a good card that allowed for a few horses to pull off some major coups. There was a particularly nasty stallion called Aya Toofan (here comes the storm) who hated the statring gates and hated his jockey - had been known to turn and bite his foot during a race. He was at the end of his racing days and was seen as Darius put it; a donkey.
The time for the race neared and the skies above grew blacker and blacker; we could hardly see the 1400 metre start. I stood up in the box and said, " the storm's coming and he'll win", they all laughed and I went and put my last twenty rupees on Aya Toofan. When I got back to seat the race had begun and the lightening forked the sky and the thunder made the buildings shake. Further down the course for us by the home bend there was a cry of ,"Aya Toofan," and he was indeed coming yards ahead of the rest of the field and the rain and the storm and the shouts of the crowd spurred him on to win. For this was not a favourite but never has synchronicity seemed so perfect and all there that day understood and cheered for a bad tempered but great hearted horse.
Yes, I will tell you - 100/1! Never listen to those who say don't back it, it's a donkey, or those who say sentiment has no place in racing. They are both wrong.
When we moan at our wet summers and the grey rain we forget the elemental joy of the monsoon and its life enhancing properties, let us cherish our rain a little more and find the joy of splashing about in puddles again.
Search Amazon.com for the rains came
My old school had had its gates forced open be the floods and we went inside to see desks and chairs bobbing merrily in the muddy water.
Once, on our way back from Tollygunge, the skies opened and faster than we could drive the road in front of us flooded. My friend Shashi was driving, the usual mob in the back: Harish, Darius, Annabel, Pomi and me. The car stalled - the boys offered 'helpful advice', Annabel and Pomi and me got out and started to push through the ever deepening puddles. Finally the boys got the message and we pushed and pushed and pushed, past the lakes across Chowringhee and then the engine sputtered into life and like the film 'Little Miss Sunshine' we ran to catch up and jump in.
I don't know why it is such a joyous memory, something about the sheer desparation, the mother of all rows between Shashi and Harish (she was always fiery), the being soaking wet or just the laughter as we kept on pushing and the laughter we caused from rickshaw wallahs and street vendors that made it a moment of pure joy.
In a city built on marsh land the water tries hard to reclaim its old ways and the river, Hooghly, the artery of the city swells alarmingly. Once or twice a year there is a bore tide, where the tide rushes form both ends of the river to meet in clash of waves up to seven feet high. It is possible even when standing on a rooftop safely some distance from the water to feel a real fear that the river continue to rise and the wave will take us all.
And then of course, the Monsoon races, I received an announcement yesterday that they were due to start. These were not the cold weather fashion parades, but still the RCTC provided a good card that allowed for a few horses to pull off some major coups. There was a particularly nasty stallion called Aya Toofan (here comes the storm) who hated the statring gates and hated his jockey - had been known to turn and bite his foot during a race. He was at the end of his racing days and was seen as Darius put it; a donkey.
The time for the race neared and the skies above grew blacker and blacker; we could hardly see the 1400 metre start. I stood up in the box and said, " the storm's coming and he'll win", they all laughed and I went and put my last twenty rupees on Aya Toofan. When I got back to seat the race had begun and the lightening forked the sky and the thunder made the buildings shake. Further down the course for us by the home bend there was a cry of ,"Aya Toofan," and he was indeed coming yards ahead of the rest of the field and the rain and the storm and the shouts of the crowd spurred him on to win. For this was not a favourite but never has synchronicity seemed so perfect and all there that day understood and cheered for a bad tempered but great hearted horse.
Yes, I will tell you - 100/1! Never listen to those who say don't back it, it's a donkey, or those who say sentiment has no place in racing. They are both wrong.
When we moan at our wet summers and the grey rain we forget the elemental joy of the monsoon and its life enhancing properties, let us cherish our rain a little more and find the joy of splashing about in puddles again.
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- Monsoon Magic (teabreak.pk)
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Search Amazon.com for the rains came
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