The white fleece spins its way into dark wool and spreads upon the expanse of the blue sky. It begins to boom and not even the biggest bass can match its terrible tremors. As in the days gone by when trumpets and drums heralded the arrival of the king, this thunder heralds the arrival of the monsoon. Pitter-patter the raindrops fall and cool the thousands of hot heads below. The heat breaks, the breeze drapes a cold draught over itself and the leaves change into a darker shade of green.
Somewhere, a woman decides to make hot, sizzling pakodas to the delight of her children, while a couple of friends take shelter from the rain below the tarpaulin of their favourite snack cart. Farmers rejoice everywhere as raindrops soak the soil and give it a chance to flaunt its lush fertility. My grandmother, as was her wont, used to stand near the window and observe it all, a happy smile on her face.
And how beautiful is a monsoon by Bollywood? The setting for the flowering of a romance or perhaps just a celebration of love. A couple sheltering themselves in a single raincoat. Another couple just dancing their hearts out under drenching rain.
But rain is not the same everywhere. Spread across a large expanse, it rages in one part of town while the other may be dry. Thundering and rumbling, it fells large trees as if they were mere matchboxes. Lights go out, candles are brought in, a dark gloom settles. Nostalgia, achingly bittersweet memories creep up. All the things that one has ever lost are remembered, triggered by rain.
Devastating effect
Back in the villages, farmers scream horror as the crops that they had grown, ploughed, watered and planned for so many months, are trampled upon by the heavy hand of a vicious storm. Roadside dwellers hold onto their shanties for dear life. One wild whirlwind and it could sweep their whole home away. And then there are some who do not even have those, and their knees simply buckle under the force of nature as they surrender, sometimes with their life itself. The same Bollywood which has given us such iconic monsoon romances suddenly takes a dark turn. It becomes the harbinger of bad news, a symbol of an ill omen, the setting of something dramatic.
This is the duality of the monsoon. A season built on contrasts. Scorching heat giving way to cold rainfall. Dark clouds float with silver linings, and heavy storms are followed by streaking rainbows.
There is romance on one side and tragedy on the other. Little joys bloom here and heavy sorrows settle there. Someone sees new hope and someone sees impending doom. As the season falls upon us, this duality confronts and surrounds us yet again. The pendulum of emotions has begun its oscillations, the contrasts have begun a battle against each other, and a new chapter of life slowly unfolds in their wake.
Elders often boast of having seen more monsoons than we have. They have lived this contrast over and over again with all its ups and downs. Once you experience the monsoon deeply, you are not the same any more.
The monsoon is synonymous with change, growth, rebirth. You, too, have changed, grown and transformed. And though it may rain on all of us, the monsoon that we embrace, is very distinctly our own.
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