POSTSCRIPT FILMS | MONSOON MUSINGS

Racing with the Rain

In Kerala, the south-west monsoon is majestic; in Mumbai, it is often a source of inconvenience.
by Prabha Pillai

or most of us, every word, each letter, whatever be the language, comes with a form that is unique. Words like love, aversion or friendship evoke different emotions, feelings and images, all quite separate from one another, never uniform, each belonging unambiguously to the person from whose world it emerged. Think, then, of rain. For many, the rain, now lashing Kerala and Mumbai in the form of the south-west monsoon, suggests a refreshing happiness, coolness and a sense of wellness. For me personally, the onset of the south-west monsoon is Sivas samhara tandavam, a dance of destruction, a dance with black fury rendered to the accompaniment of clashing cymbals. After the festival of Vishu in April, in the extreme heat of Palakkad, in the north of Kerala, where I grew up, the water levels in wells begin to sink lower and lower and we would have to go to the river in the mornings and evenings to bathe and wash our clothes. On many such evenings, the sky would suddenly darken and angry lightning would scrawl disturbing lines across the dark canvas. We recall Amma, our mother, warning us that the probability of getting struck by lightning was the highest if we were in the water. As we saw the sheets of rain apping across the paddy elds towards us, we would hurriedly gather up our clothes and make a dash for home. We were racing with the rain and home was the nish line. Sometimes, perhaps to make us children happy, the rain would linger a little longer in the elds and over the river, and we often won our own little race with the rain as we scampered to the security of our home.
september 7, 2013 vol xlviII no 36
EPW Economic & Political Weekly

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POSTSCRIPT MONSOON MUSINGS

stray raindrop disturbs the silence. But the waters continue Once we reached home, Amma would not allow us to dry to come down as ne threads of liquid wizardry invisible to our clothes at once. She would order us to sit on the bed withthe eye. In Mumbai, the rain was like a raving lunatic, madly out letting our wet feet touch the ground (just in case lightand agitatedly complaining about something at one moment ning struck). We, who until then, during the preceding torrid and then angrily shouting at someone the next. And, once summer, had been praying that the rains should fall in great in a rare while, again like a maniac, it would laugh. Like torrents, would shut the doors and windows, and cramp someone who has lost that delicate balance of mind, it ourselves on the bed. As the downpour became heavier, the would come at a furious pace and then stop just as abruptly. thunderclaps would fall silent, and that was when Amma The skies would be clear in the morning as I stepped out allowed us to get down from the bed. of home to head for ofce in the sure knowledge that there For days then, during the monsoon, I could not glimpse was no possibility of rain that day. Halfway, the clouds the sun, and the roads would be full of water and mud I would suddenly turn dark and foreboding, lookdidnt like the rain then, I dont like it today. I In Mumbai, ing, as poets say, like the naked rage of frenzied agree that we need the monsoon for a good supply the rain was elephants in musth. of groundwater, and to allow wells and rivers to like a raving Mumbais monsoon is like an uninvited guest. remain full. But why shouldnt the rain fall only in lunatic, madly It is like someone who has outstayed her welcome those necessary places? Why fall where I stay? In and agitatedly but does not show any sign of leaving. And when Mumbai, where I now live, why shouldnt it rain complaining it is nally forced to leave, it does so with reluconly in the catchment areas? about something tance. At the best of times, travelling in Mumbai's In those days of growing up, I never heard of a at one moment local trains is intolerable but if it is possible to ood happening in my Palakkad village because and then angrily make the intolerable worse, then the rains do it. A it rained too much. Or that buses or trains would shouting at good rain turns roads into rivers in Mumbai. Connot run because of the rain. In my early years in someone fused and bewildered and not knowing what to Mumbai, I was astonished to hear that trains had the next do, like a child who has lost his way, the waters stopped running because of the rains. Soon after I rush here and there without direction, trying in vain to nd got married, I remained in Mumbai for two or three months non-existent outlets to escape the concrete jungle. before going back to Kerala to nish my studies. After that Many people say they like it during the monsoon when it I returned to the huge city. It was June and the monsoon is dark and overcast for days on end and there is no hint of downpour was torrential. Through the windows of that wet the sun. But for me it is the opposite feeling those are days train, I saw the rain enter the compartment, and slowly wawhen I feel a nameless grief, a memory of something elusive ter began to spread everywhere. Anxiety was writ large on gone forever, a remembrance of pain and loss. the faces of the passengers. They were asking one another, in whispered tones of anxiety, how they would manage to reach Prabha Pillai (prabha@epw.in) is an editor at EPW. their homes once the train arrived at the station. I found it all very amusing then. Around 10 or 12 years later, I began my rst job and the LAST LINES month I reported for duty also happened to be June. It was, of course, raining heavily. There were very few passengers in the train; I thought it must be a public holiday until I heard the same worries being mouthed Will the roads be ooded? Will the train stop halfway? Will buses get stranded in waterlogged streets? I couldn't quite understand why people would be so worried. As soon as I reached the ofce, I got a call from my husband to return immediately. That was my rst realisation that something was amiss. There were not many people in the ofce and those who were present wondered why I had come. Only then did I understand the reason for the trains not being crowded. Not stopping to say anything to anyone, I hastened back to the station. It took hours for me to reach home. On the way, I saw railway tracks submerged under water. My train crawled, halted, crawled again, only to stop soon. I sat inside the compartment, frightened and shivering, wondering whether I would reach home at all. After that, Mumbais monsoon became a nightmare for me. In Kerala, the rains come heralded by a drum roll of magical sounds, and gradually fall mute until not even a
Economic & Political Weekly EPW

september 7, 2013

vol xlviII no 36

87