When the sky opens

Normally it ought to have; after all,rains are to residents of Kerala,what permafrost is to Inuits. On an average,Kerala receives about 118 inches (3,000 mm) of rains annually,nearly 60 per cent of which is contributed by the south-west monsoon. The rest comes from the north-east monsoon in November and pre-monsoon summer showers. Even so,Malayalam has only a sparse vocabulary for “rain”. It is referred to mostly by the noun mazha,sometimes preceded by an adjective. The word is combined with three or four verb forms to suggest various rain forms.

Probably that’s more natural; like what Jorge Luis Borges said about local colour,the Koran and camels: “A few days ago,I discovered a curious confirmation of the way in which what is truly native can and often does dispense with local colour; I found this confirmation in Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Gibbon observes that in the Arab book par excellence,in the Koran,there are no camels; I believe if there were any doubt as to the authenticity of the Koran,this lack of camels would suffice to prove that it is Arab… while the first thing a forger,a tourist,or an Arab nationalist would do is bring on the camels,whole caravans of camels on every page…”

Likewise,in a certain way,Kerala is blind to rains: An event that coincides with the monsoon’s call in Kerala is the opening of schools after the summer holidays. The appointed day is usually June 1. For generations of children,it was an event they looked forward to with great eagerness. Everything was new that day; dress,footwear,books,hatchbacks,pencils,nice smelling new erasers and,of course,umbrellas. However,when the children came home in the evening,they would be drenched by what was usually the first monsoon shower. In the ’50s,schools on high ground were invariably closed as soon as they were opened,to provide temporary shelters to families displaced by floods. While fixing the academic calendar, Malayalees seem to have forgotten the advent of monsoon. Or,perhaps,there was no other way; every other day is rainy.

Rains made umbrella a necessary accessory for the Malayalees. Till the end of the 19th century,umbrellas were made of areca nut trees’ barks; labourers wore them like hats and gentry carried them on hand,fixed to a staff. Some centuries ago,the Malayalees forgot the connection between umbrellas and rains and vested them with functions their original inventor might never have intended. From a rain or sun shade,it became a veil. Upper-caste women,especially Namboothiiris,were not allowed to get out of the house,without carrying a huge umbrella,sometimes draped with clothes. These walking tabernacles could only move with the help of a maid. In 1904,when folding umbrellas made of cloth first appeared,the then Maharaja of Kochi,Sir Rama Varma,realising their subversive potential,quickly banned them.

The monsoon did periodically remind the Malayalees,often with a bang,of its immense grip over their lives. Hundreds perished in famines following the droughts of 1729 and 1877. In 1853,after two seasons of torrential rain,most of the paddy fields were destroyed. That forced the State of Travancore,for the first time,to import rice.

Malayalam has two words for the south-west monsoon; kalavarsham meaning seasonal rain,and,more accurately,edavapathi,after the day of the month on which it traditionally arrives,that is,the 15th day of Edavam or the Malayalam solar month of Taurus. This year,it fell on May 29,the same day when the monsoon entered Kerala.

Malayalam has a unique word for “prelude to rains” — mazhakol: the gathering of clouds before the rain. Most spectacularly,this happens on the day of the outbreak of the south-west monsoon. Clouds brought by winds from different latitudes gather in the panoramic sky over Kerala beaches. Minute by minute,you can see their grey tones thickening to pure black. The presence of the sun makes one remember the Malayalam ditty,“rain and shine,that’s when jackals wed”. Occasional lightning backlights thick cloud curtains. Sometimes on the horizon there is a rainbow. Then,suddenly,the first drops of rain,as big as marbles,start falling.

In the 1970s,a few fisherfolk and local people used to watch the first rains at the Thiruvananthapuram beach. Weathermen from the town,with boxes full of instruments,would also join. Foreigners,mostly,senior citizens from Europe,came later. The Japanese in their bermudas,feverishly clicking pictures,landed in the ’80s. As time went by,the crowd grew; international Met people registered a big presence. More tourists,many from rain-starved Saudi Arabia,started flocking to Kerala.

The 1991 BBC documentary Chasing India’s Monsoon brought crowds in hordes. Next year,at Kovalam beach,the celestial spectacle of jostling clouds overhanging perilously close to a tumultuous sea was matched by hundreds of zoom-lens carrying monsoon enthusiasts. That year,the paparazzi-shy monsoon delayed its debut.

Kerala branded monsoon; and parcelled it as honeymoon and wellness packages. Suddenly rains were on everybody’s mind. To recall Borges,it was not only a case of bringing on the camels,whole caravans of camels,but also selling fridge magnets with camel motifs.

One of the best places to watch the awesome arrival of the monsoon is Kochi. The town itself is the daughter of the south-west monsoon. The river Periyar,before it was dammed,was known as the Sorrow of Kerala. In one of the fiercest monsoons,in 1341,Periyar whirling down the Western Ghats with torrents of water ruptured the Kochi sandbar and from that gorge,the port of Kochi was born.

For millenniums,Indians knew the path of the monsoon. In Kalidasa’s poem Meghsandesh (the Cloud Messenger),the exiled lover sent his love-epistle to his beloved with a cloud. Modern researchers claim that the poet fashioned the cloud’s journey along with the south-west monsoon’s path. From Kerala to Himalayan terai,farming all over India is conducted,in periods of constellations called nakshathras,with a prescribed set of operations for each period,roughly equal to a fortnight. The south-west monsoon usually starts in the constellation Rohini,and planting is scheduled for Ardra in late June,when rainfall is heavy. As I see this year’s satellite pictures of monsoon clouds moving up from the Kerala coast,in white blotches and swirls,I am once again reminded how destinies of millions of people are decided by them.