Rain magic
The monsoon is here, finally. You awoke to a wet day, with the sound of the rain pattering on the road outside and swishing sounds of cars whooshing past, spraying water from their wheels. The monsoon always comes to the city like this: a prolonged spell of rain that can last almost non-stop for two or three days. After months of baking under a hot dry sun, it is a blessed relief to be awoken in the morning, not by burning rays that toast your bedclothes to a warm crisp, but by cool, cloudy skies and strong breezes that whip up the trees outside your bedroom window into a frantic joyous celebration of the rain.
The rain has not let up for hours now. It occasionally thins down to a gentle sprinkle, then as if refreshed by its rest, it tap dances anew on the road and the cars and the trees. It bounces off the pavement and collects in great muddy puddles at the side of the road, drowning the curbstones, and rising in great fan-sprays as cars merrily swoosh through.
The first sign of the monsoon is always the waves. For nine months of the year these are gentle swells that lap at the rocks that line the western bay or quietly caress the old stone skirts of the city on the eastern side. But as the monsoon approaches, the waves grow bolder. They sense the arrival of their mistress, their lover. They bound up the rocks and splash against the parapet. At first, it is just one or two waves in perhaps twenty that are so daring. But in a few days they are leaping and gamboling joyously, hurling themselves up the rocks, breaking over the parapet wall and drenching the pavement beyond. A passerby who has missed the last leaping frolic may be excused for thinking that the monsoon is already here, so soaked is the pavement. And if he is so unwary as to rest against the wall or so heedless as to stand upon it, the waves will throw themselves at him, eager to have him join them in their play. It is a time-honored custom in the city to line the wall and greet these first young waves and to be drenched by them, as if in preparation for the rains that will soon bathe the city.
One day over the city there are clouds that promise to bring relief, and although they hurry on, for their job lies further inland, they still blunt the sun’s razor edges and, perhaps, a young inexperienced cloud will hesitantly shower the city with a light tentative drizzle. Immediately, the air is cleaner than it has been for many weeks and one can see clear across the bays on either side of this slim island.
To the west, one can see both horns of the bay, each with its outgrowth of cement and concrete, like barnacles deposited over centuries, coalesced into stalagmites that seek vainly to touch the sky. On other days, these are often seen as through a haze, and sometimes not at all, but today they are clear and sharp. Yet, their menace has been softened and neutralized and they seem to be one with the landscape, natural and in their right place.
To the east, the mountains across the bay are clearly visible, crisply silhouetted against the sky. The large ships that lie anchored in the bay are tense and wary, their sharp edges taut and ready for fight or flight. Nestling closer to the land are the smaller boats and yachts, their bare masts swaying and bobbing in an uncoordinated way, like a troop of dancers, uncertain of what they should do next. The fishing boats that used to be a colorful display of flags and buntings are all anchored close to shore, battened down with bright blue plastic covers that mimic the blue plastic that has been draped across the roofs of the fishermen’s huts and weighted down with bricks and stones, in a forlorn attempt to protect their inhabitants from the impending fury of the rains.
Across the city, the trees are greener, as if rejuvenated by the arrival of their mother. Gul mohur trees are in full bloom, favoured children of the monsoon, their red and orange flowers carpeting the treetops. In some areas, a single gul mohur tree stands aflame like a beacon, showing the clouds the way, in other pockets, clusters of them stand together like a treetop bonfire.
At night the armies of the rain gods begin to collect. Against the black night sky, one can sense ominous forces gathering. There is a distant rumble that is so faint you might have imagined it. Minutes later the rumble is over your head and it explodes in a mighty crack! For a second, the sky is alight with white fire and you see the dark monsters that have gathered over the city, roiling and tumbling in a frenzied maelstrom of activity. The wind is lashing the trees outside your window and the leaves are hissing and chattering to themselves, sounding exactly like the rain that they welcome with longing and fear. You peek out the window expecting to see torrents of rain, but the streets are bone dry in the lamplight, though the dead leaves are whipping around lampposts in tiny typhoons and whirlwinds.
If you have left a window open, and who would not when the cool breeze is so welcome, there will be a steady stream of visitors, both small and large. Dark moths that frantically flutter against your table light, small light bugs that flop onto your arms and head and crawl hesitantly over you, their translucent wings shining. Outside, the unexpected wildlife of the city is in full cry, beseeching the clouds to drop their largesse. Frogs, cicadas and crickets, former denizens of the wild, naturalized citizens now, each sing their busy song, if only you would stop to hear it. The birds are asleep, but occasionally a crow, disturbed perhaps by the breeze, will let loose a loud caw, as if to tell everyone else to shut up and let him sleep in peace.
As you sleep that night, the gods hold council and decide that the time is right. The signal is flashed to the clouds as a telegraphic bolt of lightning lashes through them and provokes an angry clap of thunder.
You awake to the genuine susurration of the raindrops, the air smells of rain, the dark clouds overhead seem to hold a translucence that is more gentle and benevolent than the angry sun, the roads are glistening. Umbrellas are sprouting on the road below your balcony. When you walk out to the car, a fat snail is gliding up the wall nearby, defying gravity with deceptive slowness. A crow sits forlorn and bedraggled on a branch overhead, too drenched to bother greeting you with a caw. But his eyes are bright and alert. The rains are here.
The rain has not let up for hours now. It occasionally thins down to a gentle sprinkle, then as if refreshed by its rest, it tap dances anew on the road and the cars and the trees. It bounces off the pavement and collects in great muddy puddles at the side of the road, drowning the curbstones, and rising in great fan-sprays as cars merrily swoosh through.
The first sign of the monsoon is always the waves. For nine months of the year these are gentle swells that lap at the rocks that line the western bay or quietly caress the old stone skirts of the city on the eastern side. But as the monsoon approaches, the waves grow bolder. They sense the arrival of their mistress, their lover. They bound up the rocks and splash against the parapet. At first, it is just one or two waves in perhaps twenty that are so daring. But in a few days they are leaping and gamboling joyously, hurling themselves up the rocks, breaking over the parapet wall and drenching the pavement beyond. A passerby who has missed the last leaping frolic may be excused for thinking that the monsoon is already here, so soaked is the pavement. And if he is so unwary as to rest against the wall or so heedless as to stand upon it, the waves will throw themselves at him, eager to have him join them in their play. It is a time-honored custom in the city to line the wall and greet these first young waves and to be drenched by them, as if in preparation for the rains that will soon bathe the city.
One day over the city there are clouds that promise to bring relief, and although they hurry on, for their job lies further inland, they still blunt the sun’s razor edges and, perhaps, a young inexperienced cloud will hesitantly shower the city with a light tentative drizzle. Immediately, the air is cleaner than it has been for many weeks and one can see clear across the bays on either side of this slim island.
To the west, one can see both horns of the bay, each with its outgrowth of cement and concrete, like barnacles deposited over centuries, coalesced into stalagmites that seek vainly to touch the sky. On other days, these are often seen as through a haze, and sometimes not at all, but today they are clear and sharp. Yet, their menace has been softened and neutralized and they seem to be one with the landscape, natural and in their right place.
To the east, the mountains across the bay are clearly visible, crisply silhouetted against the sky. The large ships that lie anchored in the bay are tense and wary, their sharp edges taut and ready for fight or flight. Nestling closer to the land are the smaller boats and yachts, their bare masts swaying and bobbing in an uncoordinated way, like a troop of dancers, uncertain of what they should do next. The fishing boats that used to be a colorful display of flags and buntings are all anchored close to shore, battened down with bright blue plastic covers that mimic the blue plastic that has been draped across the roofs of the fishermen’s huts and weighted down with bricks and stones, in a forlorn attempt to protect their inhabitants from the impending fury of the rains.
Across the city, the trees are greener, as if rejuvenated by the arrival of their mother. Gul mohur trees are in full bloom, favoured children of the monsoon, their red and orange flowers carpeting the treetops. In some areas, a single gul mohur tree stands aflame like a beacon, showing the clouds the way, in other pockets, clusters of them stand together like a treetop bonfire.
At night the armies of the rain gods begin to collect. Against the black night sky, one can sense ominous forces gathering. There is a distant rumble that is so faint you might have imagined it. Minutes later the rumble is over your head and it explodes in a mighty crack! For a second, the sky is alight with white fire and you see the dark monsters that have gathered over the city, roiling and tumbling in a frenzied maelstrom of activity. The wind is lashing the trees outside your window and the leaves are hissing and chattering to themselves, sounding exactly like the rain that they welcome with longing and fear. You peek out the window expecting to see torrents of rain, but the streets are bone dry in the lamplight, though the dead leaves are whipping around lampposts in tiny typhoons and whirlwinds.
If you have left a window open, and who would not when the cool breeze is so welcome, there will be a steady stream of visitors, both small and large. Dark moths that frantically flutter against your table light, small light bugs that flop onto your arms and head and crawl hesitantly over you, their translucent wings shining. Outside, the unexpected wildlife of the city is in full cry, beseeching the clouds to drop their largesse. Frogs, cicadas and crickets, former denizens of the wild, naturalized citizens now, each sing their busy song, if only you would stop to hear it. The birds are asleep, but occasionally a crow, disturbed perhaps by the breeze, will let loose a loud caw, as if to tell everyone else to shut up and let him sleep in peace.
As you sleep that night, the gods hold council and decide that the time is right. The signal is flashed to the clouds as a telegraphic bolt of lightning lashes through them and provokes an angry clap of thunder.
You awake to the genuine susurration of the raindrops, the air smells of rain, the dark clouds overhead seem to hold a translucence that is more gentle and benevolent than the angry sun, the roads are glistening. Umbrellas are sprouting on the road below your balcony. When you walk out to the car, a fat snail is gliding up the wall nearby, defying gravity with deceptive slowness. A crow sits forlorn and bedraggled on a branch overhead, too drenched to bother greeting you with a caw. But his eyes are bright and alert. The rains are here.
