When it rained in my mind…

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My most vivid memories of monsoons go back to my childhood when we spent the summer vacations in Kerala. Our summer vacations started in May and extended into the monsoon season. I did not like summers in Kerala because they were hot and humid. They made me feel sticky; it was as if my skin couldn’t breathe. But the excitement of the holidays and the freedom that came with it, drowned my discomfort. In my eagerness to explore the outdoors, I often overlooked this discomfort.

 
As children, we didn’t seem to realize the distinction between the outdoors and the indoors. The doors didn’t seem to exist. We could walk in and out of the house as we pleased. In my ancestral house in Kerala, the doors were also open to fireflies, grasshoppers, millipedes and centipedes! Mice lived up in the attic. Stray cats stepped in authoritatively, looking at us in disdain when we called out to them. They went about with an air of importance, and refused to pay any heed to our calls unless we were at a meal and had titbits of fish to offer.

It was impossible to feel lonely in that kind of house.

Our house stood on a grove. There were wild trees in the grove, with sturdy branches where we could have built tree houses if we chose to. There were fruit trees and pepper vines. The grove even housed a pond. That pond was my pride- it was the treasure hidden in our grove.

That was true wealth- the luxury of open spaces and earth unspoilt by human manipulation. Those houses were gradually replaced by posh mansions where the doors and the gates were kept locked. The outdoors receded, and with them receded our companions from nature. We shut ourselves in these comfortable prisons and called them houses.

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May would slowly roll into June. Thick clouds appeared in the sky towards the end of May. I could then feel the oppressive heaviness of the sky; it ached to rain. Promptly, on the 1st of June, when we changed the calendar to a new page, unseen hands had changed the canvas of nature too, to suit a new month, a new mood.
It rained heavily on the first day of June. We would wake up in the morning to the sound of rain. We rushed out to see what was in store for us. The sky was dark; the sun seemed to be hibernating. The rain descended in huge torrents, until everything went under water. It was like the pent up tears of an entire summer. I loved the way water gathered everywhere until the house literally seemed to stand in the middle of a river. The rain came down heavily on the trees, but they welcomed it with open arms, holding out their branches and leafy coats for it to wet. They swayed in a slow rhythm, and I felt as if they were savouring the rain- its first feel after a harsh summer.

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I was mesmerised by the magic of rain. To me, it was the most enchanting phenomenon that had graced life on earth for it had swept up the canvas of the earth in its magic. What had been dry, parched earth, so devoid of life, had transformed into a canvas of life in its utmost splendour and glory, throbbing and glowing with new life and hope.

The weather had cooled and an occasional wind blew, sweeping up the rain in its arms in sheer glee, taking the rain by surprise until it fell in slanting sheets.

I was enchanted by the melody of the rain…by its differing notes. When it rained heavily, it was loud and powerful; it almost seemed to demand a certain silence of earth. Its loud din as it fell heavily on the water collected in the courtyard, rose above every other sound. We had to shout to be heard. Sometimes it rained heavily for hours. Then, it would mellow down for a few minutes, only to resume. We sometimes sat out in the portico, watching the coconut palms sway in the rain. When our parents weren’t watching, we stood on the steps and put out our hands to feel the rain. We made paper boats and set them afloat on the water that had collected in the courtyard.

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It rained heavily for days. After a week or so, the character of the rain would change. It would take the form of a persistent light downpour. Frogs croaked and birds chirped, and the pitter patter of the rain was a musical accompaniment to the sounds of nature. The tinkle of water as it fell gracefully and gently on little puddles, was musical. At night, we slept to the comforting lullaby of the rain.

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On some nights, we would sit in the portico and stare into the deep darkness of the moonless night. Not a single star twinkled in the sky. But these were the nights that were lit up by the flicker of millions of tiny creatures that appeared to move about with tiny flashlights. They were in the air and on the trees- on their highest branches, like decoration lights. They came floating into the house and flickered, now on a wall, now on the roof. They were the fireflies- the glow worms. We tried to catch them. We often failed, but at the most unexpected moments, they came of their own accord and flickered on our feet or hands. At that moment, I glowed with the inexplicable joy of having touched a fantasy! I could never believe those creatures were real. In my little mind, they were creatures that descended on earth transiently to experience its sights and sounds on nights when the Gods were kind enough to grant them this wish. It was the spell of these monsoon nights that gifted me my first feel of paradise. They taught me the joy of fantasy.

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On these nights, as I embraced the deep trance of a moonless night lit up by the flicker of these magical creatures, the orchestra of the rain and the delightful chill that accompanied the rains, I felt special. I felt nature had let me into her precious secret in these moments. I felt special because even though I was only a child, I knew I couldn’t share these feelings with anybody. I did not have the words then to describe the magic of what I felt. And so, I had to be content, bottling up the magic of what I had felt.

When the rains finally receded, I would be sad.

To me, rains were magic potions that the heavens sprinkled on the earth, until earth was rejuvenated, replenished and made resplendent with beauty. That was why the Gods created rain. The rains were magic potions for a grieving earth and for grieving, lonely souls who needed a little magic in their lives. 


After the rains had bid goodbye, I sought consolation in water bodies. The waterfalls and gurgling brooks were perhaps earth’s reminiscence of the rain. I found consolation in the water that flowed in the canals, gurgling and rushing.

I found consolation in the pond in our grove. I couldn’t swim; so I would longingly watch little boys diving into the pond and swimming as deftly as the fishes. Oh, why didn’t I learn swimming? I suppose I was too shy to ask anybody to teach me. It is an unfulfilled dream.
At the end of my vacation, when I came back to Bangalore, I felt my fantasy world had been snatched away from me. I yearned for it.

 

After experiencing the magic of the monsoons in Kerala, rains in Bangalore were a poor show. They were light drizzles that made the already cold weather colder and gloomy. The city’s garbage came floating into the puddles and I hated walking in the rain. It was a mess, an inconvenience.

This feeling changed a little in my college days when I started to think these drizzles were romantic. It was on a monsoon evening that somebody had professed their love for me. The clouds and the rains had witnessed that moment and I had driven home, singing at the top of my voice, ‘Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain’. The rain had transformed into a companion in those days. It sprinkled into my moments an ounce of the magic potion that made my experience of relationships rather special and phenomenally beautiful.
I cannot forget the adventures either. Nights when I rode back home through desolate stretches of road, shivering in my raincoat, struggling to keep my eyes on the road, struggling to keep the vehicle from skidding. I rode dangerously fast, more from fear and desperation, than from courage. And then that night in Kerala when I had missed the train and had to take a late bus to my hometown. A stranger had stalked me; he had got off at the same stop as me. It was close to midnight, and the bus stop was deserted, the rain heavy. A familiar figure walked towards me and I had never been so glad to see my father! I also remember those rainy nights when I hopped off the bus at Manipal, and I ran the five minutes distance to my apartment, oblivious to the stares of the occasional passers by, oblivious to the rain.

 

Sometimes, I ask myself- Where was the rain? And then, I know that all along, it was inside of me.

It was in my mind that it rained…