The reign of rain

The roar can be heard from afar. Within minutes it is here, enveloping theearth in a sheet of water. Nature and its elements recede into a sublimesleep. Nothing can be heard but the roar of the rains. The concert goes ondeep into the night, the pitter-patter on the roof or tree tops exploringthe entire gamut of ragas. The monsoon is when Mother Earth is at hermusical best.

By the next morning, life would have changed. All the world would haveawoken into a deep green. And it would be water everywhere.

Life on the road would turn into a carnival of umbrellas. The littlecoloured ones hiding cherubims, the business-like black foldables shelteringoffice-goers and grandpa umbrellas — conspicuous by their big handles –crowding bus shelters, occasionally spilling on to the roads. Little onesare constantly being admonished by mothers everywhere not to leave theirumbrellas at school. The êimunduêr, with its exceptional ability to attractslush, can become a great nuisance. The house smells of damp clothes.ÆFor most people in Kerala, memories of the Monsoon are inextricably linkedwith going to school, because the rains invariably arrive on the first dayof the new term. That’s when the humble hawaii chappal becomes God’s gift toevery child who loves the rain — and most do. There’s nothing quite likewallowing in puddles and splashing water on friends. Things become betterwhen the thatched or tiled roof of the classroom can no longer withstand thedownpour. The tattle of the raindrops and the chatter in the classroom willthen effectively end the algebra exercise or lessons on How Arab TradersUsed the Monsoon Winds to Arrive in Kerala. Notebooks will soon begin tolose pages as the boat traffic on the little rivulets in the courtyardincreases.

It doesn’t take many days for the romance to fade away. The monsoon chaserswho may have arrived, with cap and camera, to shoot the rains soon head forGoa or some other country that God’s own. The prayers give way to curses. Asit rains through the day and night, life grinds to a halt. Potholes andcareless drivers seem to come in pairs, until you wish that you were in dry,distant Rajasthan.

And then the news of impending floods arrive. “It’s raining heavily in thehills.” “The river has turned green. It’s the êimalavellamêr.” The droneof a rainy night is soon shattered by the man with a megaphone in anautorickshaw or a state boat warning people living in low-lying areas toshift to safer regions.

The migration begins. In schools and post offices… little groups appear. Aboiling pot in one corner. A few children running in the verandah.ÆThe poetic phase has ended. Prose takes over. Newspapers report the flashfloods in the high ranges–êiMalavellathil malayidinju mathayiyum moonuperum maranamadanjuêr (Mathai and three others dead as flash floods causelandslide). The stories on “Tenth Consecutive Normal Monsoon will boost theEconomy” make way for “Minister goes to Delhi to demand flood relief” and“Central team to fly over flooded areas”.

In the water-locked Kuttanad, where paddy is grown a few feet below thewater level, farmers watch the muddy waters of Pamba and its tributariesthreaten the mud bunds. When life decides to be harsh, the breach happens,and entire villages are woken up. Spades, palm fronds, banana plants, muds,people, whole communities, sweat to fix the bund. In the end, not much maybe lost, perhaps a few acres of paddy. But it’s enough to bring the olddoggerel to mind: Rain, rain go away.

For some strange reason, the Malayalam word for the Southwest Monsoon isêiKalavarshamêr which means the rain of time. Why isn’t it êiVarshakalamêr(the time of rain) as it should be? But think about it a bit and you realisethat there couldn’t be a better word than that.

The monsoon encapsulates the complete experience of Time. Birth, death,happiness, longing, grief, disappointment–the entire gamut of a life isrevealed in some way or the other as the rains romance the length andbreadth of Kerala. Some years, the scales favour happy memories–adequatewater, bountiful harvests, no floods, few deaths. On the odd occasion, itsymbolises destruction.

Yet, every year as April and May sweats, life in Kerala moves on with thesingle belief that come June 1, the monsoon will arrive and things will bebetter.