Soaking in the enigmatic flavour of the monsoon

The monsoon is beating a slow retreat but not before we pay an ode to the season that has provoked awe and curiosity among denizens of the subcontinent since antiquity.

It has been the backdrop for many an immortal romance such as SohniMahiwal where Sohni would swim across the Chenab to meet her beloved using an earthenware pot to keep afloat. Legend has it that Sohni was drowned one night in the rainy season when the Chenab was in spate and her sister-in-law replaced the pot with a vessel of unbaked clay that dissolves in the water.

Geography textbooks tell us how the monsoon is awaited with eagerness by farmers as their crops depend on the rains. Climatologists have for long tried to decipher the dynamics that make up this unique phenomenon and tried to predict its behaviour. Yet the monsoon remains an enigma.

There is definitely more to the monsoon than the moisture-laden winds arising from the Indian Ocean. There is more to the monsoon than the percentage of precipitation.

My earliest memories of the season go back to the ’80s when Doordarshan was the only TV channel available. The glum news reader would betray a hint of a smile to announce that “the monsoon is knocking at the doors of Delhi” and it’s expected to cover North India in a day or two.

Those were the days when we used to sleep in the courtyard with the fourlegged black and white TV set kept at one corner. The next morning, we would be woken up with dark skies and a vapour-laden breeze. A flurry of footsteps would fill the early morning quietness as my parents would be hurriedly carrying the priceless TV inside our drawing room. It used to be no less than a proverbial race against time as the rain would set in, a drizzle that would give way to a determined downpour.

I would enjoy the sight of the first drops of the rain falling on my bedsheet. It would continue to rain for the next couple of days or even more. Our neighbourhood Nani would declare with the conviction of a meteorologist that it was a “jhari” as the rain had started on a “Mangalvaar (Tuesday)”. She would substantiate her statement by pointing out to the children of the locality that this was a “Bulbulon wali baarish”, which was a tell-tale sign of a “jhari”.

My mother would bring out the dustladen raincoats to enable us to go to school. We would enjoy our walk to school amid the continued downpour with frequent jumps into puddles. By evening, the roads would be submerged, presenting a sight to behold. The evening tea would be accompanied by steaming pakoras. We would fall off to sleep with the rain still pounding with ferocity.

With global warming, the monsoon has lost its vengeance. Our smartphones keep us updated of the monsoon’s progress by the minute. Every year, I look up at the sky at the stipulated time, expecting the majestic monsoon clouds to colour the city dark. Every year, I wait with childish eagerness for the “baarish ki jhari” but it seems to have become a thing of the past. Pakoras have given way to online delivery of piping hot pizzas and even the “kagaz ki kashti (paper boat)” has been relegated to the pages of history.

The rainy season may have lost its splendour but its charm, and enigma, live on.

IT WAS A RACE AGAINST TIME AS THE RAIN WOULD SET IN, A DRIZZLE THAT WOULD GIVE WAY TO A DETERMINED DOWNPOUR