Romance and rhythm of the rainy season
The exhilarating scent of the earth as the first drops of rain quench its thirst remains etched and imprinted in the repertoire of memories. Summer was scorching, winter harsh and spring was spent writing the annual exams; it was monsoon that was eagerly awaited. Time for the annual vacation, it was the season to celebrate, free from much of the school discipline.
The rains brought lush growth along with a fair share of maladies such as fever and floods. Water mills, gasping in summer, now received more water than needed and grinded to capacity. Sometimes, a downpour would make the seasonal rivulets run into a wild and deafening roar and rumble. Yes, monsoon was a mixed bag, full of blessings and tribulations, but always a time of plenty.
Holiday home work was wrapped up in haste to save time to celebrate childhood. Rain or shine, fetching water from the well early in the morning was a routine we looked forward to as the water supply scheme existed miles away in a far-flung village. The flickering of electric lights from the district headquarters was visible at night from atop a hill across the rivulet that was itself aglow with fireflies. What a sight!
The season also held the much-awaited village fair with wrestling bouts as an added adventure for boys. Swimming in the rivulet lagoons was a big attraction. Masters at skills of swimming went to a bigger challenge two miles away.
The two huge peepal trees had sturdy branches for swings. The thick rope for swings was woven from the stored bast fibre of the ‘biul’ (Grewia optiva) tree. The exciting part was each boy stealing a bundle of it from the store without the parents getting to know. The secret spoils became commonplace knowledge when senior men of the village guided the boys in braiding and weaving the master rope.
The girls arranged for a rope for their own swing but most of the times this rather thin rope had to be replaced by a stronger one made by none other than the boys! It was a time for a lot of shenanigans that the boys waited for; as did the girls. It had its own charm of indulgences. While the boys tried to be brave, the girls too played heady damsels. The rain songs of girls on the swing made an enchanting melody but the response from the boys’ camp was raucous.
One waited for his turn on the swing, difficult as it was to unseat an occupant. After dark, girls would return home earlier and the boys would then have two swings to dissipate their youthful energy.
By the time the rains ended, the maize crop was set for harvest and as the grain was separated from the cobs, the paddy crop too was ready for threshing. All remained busy with harvesting and the swing ropes by now had been mended to many knots. The festival of Sair was celebrated in mid-September, declaring an end to a difficult but hugely enjoyable part of the year.
I don’t know why many present day youngsters try to avoid the rains; for our generation it was nothing less than Godsend bliss.
MONSOON WAS A MIXED BAG, FULL OF BLESSINGS AND TRIBULATIONS, BUT ALWAYS A TIME OF PLENTY