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Rakhshanda Jalil
Monday , July 02, 2012 at 15 : 27

Once upon a time, there used to be a monsoon season


Once upon a time, till not very long ago, we used to have the Monsoons. 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 Monsoons are 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 Delhi, for example, it is always 29 June. 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 degrees 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 wind 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 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 howblythe 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, marveling how this liquid beauty has transformed the city within minutes. But as I said before, the Monsoons 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 Monsoons 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 road side. Being young, it was fun to get wet in the rain and watch others sheltering under the giant neem and jamuntrees 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 Monsoons, was driving through pouring rain to havechaatat Sweets Corner. The joy of pani-puri, alootikki or dahipapri 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. ReadingBikatKahani, the baramasaby AfzalJhinjhanvi, I am transposed to a world of love and longing associated with barkhabahar,the rainy season:

Ari jab kook koel ne sunayi

Tamami tan badanmeinaaglahi

Andher rain, jugnujagmagata


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 virahiniof the baramasafeels 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 un-passable. 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 chuamasa, 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 birbahutiinsects, 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 baramasasused this repertoire of images in different ways. Here's a sampler:

         Papiha de namakghaavonkoke pee


(The cuckoo pours salt over my wounds and tells me to

         drink it. While all the while my heart sinks from

         minute to minute)


Asaarhaayaghatachhayigagan par

Rasawat man merarasiyasajan par

(The month of Asaar 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 bachpankasawan when it comes to recapturing those magical days of long-gone childhood.

Woh kagaz ki kashti woh barish ka pani...

(RakhshandaJalil writes on culture, literature and society. She blogs at www.hindustaniawaaz-rakhshanda.blogspot.com)


More about Rakhshanda Jalil

Rakhshanda Jalil writes on culture, literature and society. She has published over 15 books, including the much-acclaimed book on Delhi's lesser-known monuments called 'Invisible Delhi' and a well-received collection of short stories, called 'Release & Other Stories' (Harper Collins, 2011). She blogs at www.hindustaniawaaz-rakhshanda.blogspot.com. Her Ph D is on the Progressive Writers' Movement.