ONCE upon a time, till not very long ago, we used to
have the monsoon. Now, barring coastal areas, in most cities across Upper
India, we have the rains. The difference is not simply one of etymology but of
a change in lifestyle, urban planning, global warming, shifting weather
patterns, in short a whole new cityscape that bears only a passing resemblance
to what once was. The monsoon is a glorious burst of rainwater, preceded by
damp masses of moisture-laden clouds scudding across the skies, bringing
darkness at noon and followed by days upon days of uninterrupted deluge. The
rains, or the rainy season, is a much shorter affair, bringing waterlogged
streets, traffic jams and irater-than-usual city-dwellers.
Having said that, there is no denying that the average person
living in North India looks forward to the end of June more eagerly than to any
other phenomenon — natural or otherwise. Several cities have a designated date
for the arrival of the monsoon; in New Delhi, for example, it is always June
29.
The first chaste encounter of cool water and hot earth, grey sky
and parched land, is preceded by severe dust storms followed by an occasional
drizzle that brings the temperature – usually hovering at 46°C or so – down,
but it leaves everything – including your mouth, nose, ears and eyes — covered
with a fine, powdery dust. For weeks before, the city pages of the dailies are
filled with reports from the Met office. There is speculation everywhere.
People talk of nothing but the unrelenting heat that smothers everything like a
dense blanket.
Water tables dip alarmingly low, taps run dry, hot gusts of loo sear, roads bake and homes give off heat even at night. Will the
monsoon keep its official "date" or will it make us wait? How far has
the easterly and westerly arms of the monsoon progressed across the length and
breadth of India? These questions take precedence over all else, even exam
results and university cut-offs, as everyone waits with breathless
anticipation!
And finally when the rains come lashing down — not the short-lived
drizzle of the pre-monsoon shower but the real thing — the city lets out a
collective sigh, as though it has been holding its breath all through the long
harsh summer. A sort of hissing sound, as the earth takes in the full impact of
the water, is followed by a long breath of relief from a city sweltering under
the merciless sun. You can hear it when the first fat drops of water fall on
the parched earth. Or, when the skies open up as though someone has pulled a
plug. Or, when the rain falls in endless sheets of water. That is the time when
even the city, no matter how blythe and blasé, begins to show traces of its
kinder, gentler self. Perfect strangers look at the pouring rain and smile at
each other. Others stretch out a tentative hand to capture tremulous drops of
water, marvelling how this liquid beauty has transformed the city within
minutes. But as I said before, the monsoon we used to have were an altogether
different affair from the rains. They lasted from end-June, raining vigorously
till August, then sporadically in September and then again in October, when the
retreating monsoon winds would bless vast tracts of land across upper India one
last time before the onset of winter. Now, with changing global weather
patterns and over-crowded, over-congested cities, the rainy season is less
clearly defined.
Having grown up in Delhi, I remember the monsoon of my childhood
as a period of unmatched joy. Cycling back from school (yes, there was a time
when children could actually cycle on the roads of Delhi, that too main
roads!), I remember getting drenched in the rain and coming home with soaking
wet school textbooks. But it was compensated with piping hot bhutta bought from the roadside. Being young, it was fun to get wet in
the rain and watch others sheltering under the giant neem and jamun trees that lined the roads. Later, it was a
treat to pick the fallen plump jamun berries from the road or to buy some from the
vendors who tossed them in tangy masala and served them in little cups
fashioned out of leaves.
Another family favourite during the monsoon, was driving through
pouring rain to have chaat at some sweets corner. The joy of pani-puri, aloo tikki or dahi papri was no match for
home-made pakoras. Or going to the India Gate Lawns where one
could run and dance, romp and play in the rain with complete abandon, for
everyone else — young and old — was doing the same. I remember boating in the shallow
canal near India Gate, upturning the boat and standing in waist-high waters
with a bunch of can-get-no-wetter school friends!
Now, as I wait expectantly for the rains, I draw solace from
reciting rain-related poetry to evoke the old magic. Reading Bikat Kahani, The Baramasa by Afzal Jhinjhanvi, I
am transposed to a world of love and longing associated with barkha bahar, the rainy season:
Ari jab kook koel ne sunayi
Tamami tan badan mein aag lahi
Andher
rain, jugnu jagmagata
Ooka jalti upar taiska jalata?
(Ah,
when the cuckoo sounds her cooing
It sets
my body aflame
The
glow worm glows in the darkness of the night
Why does it burn one already on fire?)
The virahini of the baramasa feels the pain of
separation most keenly in the month of saawan for it is during the
rains that men traditionally stayed home or came back as business was slack
possibly because roads became unpassable. Tradition also demanded that a young
bride would be called to her parents’ home when her brother would be sent to
fetch her at the beginning of the season; shortly after a token visit, she
would return to her husband’s home and resume her conjugal life. When there is
a departure from this time-honoured way of life, when the woman finds herself
alone and bereft during the months of the rains (traditionally said to last for
a chaumasa, or four months), then the dark clouds, the call of the koel, the darts of rain, the smell of damp earth, the dancing
peacocks, the blood-red birbahuti insects, remind her that all other women are
with their husbands while she is not; she is reminded of seasons past when she
had enjoyed the plentiful rains with her beloved and is tormented by the
thought of his dalliances elsewhere. Different baramasas used this repertoire of
images in different ways. Here’s a sampler:
Papiha
de namak ghaavon ko ke pee
Ghari
sahar ghari doobe mera jee
(The
cuckoo pours salt over my wounds and tells me to drink it
While
all the while my heart sinks from minute to minute)
And:
Asaarh
aaya ghata chhayi gagan par
Rasawat man mera rasiya sajan par
(The
month of Asaarh has come, the clouds cover the sky
My
heart pines for my feckless beloved)
But for me nothing can beat Chitra and Jagjit Singh’s evocation of Bachpan ka sawan when it comes to recapturing those magical days
of long-gone childhood.
Woh kagaz ki kashti, woh barish ka
pani…
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