Rain Again

13 Mar

This piece was originally published in India Currents magazine. Written as an opinion piece for a print publication, it is longer than the usual post, so sit back with a nice cuppa. :) And share your favorite memories of your favorite season (I’m hoping it’s the monsoon!) Oh, and for other rain-related posts, read this and this.

~

Three and a half decades ago, on a late July night in Bombay, the rain came clattering down on the red-tiled roof of the Parsi General Hospital. Just a few hours earlier, my mother had delivered her firstborn, and I lay in a bassinet under ultra violet light, tiny and jaundice-ridden, strangely soothed by the rumble of thunder even as other babies wailed and started.

In the years that followed, the only thing that made the start of the school year tolerable was the monsoon that accompanied it. Through the warm downpours and rising waters of my coastal city I would wade, delighted by the damp and the puddles and my red Bata gumboots.

My first solo travel experience happened at 18. And as the train wound through the emerald northern Maharashtra countryside, my face mirrored my elation. It was August, a steady stream of raindrops splashed my tee-shirt in the doorway, the wind was in my face, life lay waiting for me, I was young, and thrilled, and free!

Die-hard fans of summer can keep their king of fruit and the steaming, sultry weather that comes with it. Each year of my life, June was the Holy Grail, and the anticipation of rain was excruciating. Sometimes the clouds would gather, then flit away. Every pore of our bodies spewed humidity. Who could blame the brainfever bird in its near-hysterical state? I would fly between trees in agony if I could! Finally, at long painful last, the sky would darken, the drops would descend, falling faster and faster toward the eager earth, and all life would stop to watch  the miracle unfold.

Even as animals scuttled away to safety and dry spaces, human beings would emerge to partake of what was surely heaven’s blessing, laughing, splashing and exulting in the headiness of this grand new season. As the days turned into weeks, these same ribbons of water would cause damage to parts of the city, washing away homes and flooding the roads with their ferocity, but in that first moment, they were welcomed like god himself, all of his creatures rising to celebrate this magnificent arrival.

Indian movies are frequently accused of filling our brains with associations of rain and romance, but as a child I watched none. And yet, I cannot imagine anything more romantic than the end of summer and the lushness, virility and borderline-obscene greenness of this reckless season. Not for the monsoon is the polite chill of winter; not for the rains are the persistent claws of heat; this is a time for unbridled joy and a celebration of life and all that perpetuates its cycle.

My personal definition of rain was a downpour, one in which we could barely see beyond the cascading sheets of water. Anything less was a mere drizzle, and the sheer number of words used in India to describe rain based on its volume never fail to amaze. There is varsaad for rain—audible but not blinding; there is jhoptu for a brief, forceful shower; there was chhip-chhip for a slight drizzle; and naago varsaad for that rare combination of simultaneous rain and sun. There are also dhor maar (pouring) and ghela ni kani (like a madman), my favorite kind of precipitation. And these are just the Gujarati words! Then there are the Marathi rhymes our maids taught us about their beloved, benevolent bestower of prosperity on the fields back home.

The scent of wet earth is a cliché that’s been done to death—for a reason. Have you ever smelled anything that drove you to greater elation? That scooped you right up and plunged you straight into your childhood? That made you long for this unique and precious Indian phenomenon on this continent so far away?

When the skies turn stormy in our home country, Indians across the length and breadth of the land quicken their steps. They emerge onto rooftops and terraces and into narrow gulleys, calling out to friends and neighbors, their eyes trained skyward, their fragile hopes clutched deep within their hearts. The first drops are intercepted before they can embrace the earth, a collective gasp encircles the air, and exultation and dancing are de rigueur. No matter what their age, religion, or station, the advent of the monsoon is the Great Indian Equalizer for my people. In the land of a thousand festivals, this is probably the most universally celebrated and uniformly welcomed. And when that first deluge is done, leaves drip leaky silver missiles onto freshly cleaned streets, and to be sure, it has washed some of the dust off our souls.

When I landed in San Francisco on Valentine’s Day three years ago, I was newly-married and eager to join my spouse. It rained for six straight weeks after my arrival, and even as I laughed about being duped by “sunny” California, I could not have felt more accepted by my new patch of sky. Today, as the state battles the severest drought in its history, that gentle rain is but a memory that I hold on to with hope. A rainless existence affects me in ways deeper than just the physical. It strains the connection to my past, highlights the flaws in this Valley I am learning to befriend, and keeps me hankering for home.

It may sound dramatic, but it’s true: a lack of stormy weather parches my soul. I become unreasonable, forgetting the potholes and waterlogged streets of Bombay, and unfavorably comparing my desert-surfaced skin to the dewy glow of a season run wild to the strains of Hariharan’s “Indian Rain”, the aroma of ginger tea, and the crunch of freshly-fried pakodas. I swear up and down that I’ll visit Bombay this very monsoon, I rail at the maddeningly blue skies, and even as the rest of America faces extreme, dangerous weather, I can only wallow in my own drop-less fate as I watch the country of my birth drifting away on drain water.

Maybe it will rain before the winter is over. Maybe it will compensate for the chronically cloudless air. Maybe it will pour down in sheets as penance, and drive the weather channels into a frenzy. If this indeed manifests, as thousands across this state will it to, then in the midst of it all, remember to watch for a lone Indian woman standing in a parking lot, soaking it all up and deliriously reclaiming her connection to her ancient skies.

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13 Responses to “Rain Again”

  1. chaipakoraandgupshup March 13, 2014 at 10:17 pm #

    I miss the fragrance of the rains, the wet earth, the freshly washed leaves and the rain on a hot tar road… I was in SFO 6 weeks ago and it rained that week. I believe you guys got more rain in the following weeks too. Any time you miss the rain, come visit PDX, you’ll get your fill of this wondrous gift.

  2. Dancing Fingers Singing Keypad March 14, 2014 at 12:05 pm #

    Beautiful ode to the season you love!

  3. alice March 15, 2014 at 5:16 am #

    I love the rains too. Madly, deeply. And being a june baby, i always think of the monsoon as my own personal season.
    Well met, rain sister.

  4. Sheryl March 17, 2014 at 10:25 am #

    So beautifully written, I’m right there with you in your love of the rain. The smell of soaked grass and wet summer pavement takes me home.

  5. Sheryl March 17, 2014 at 10:26 am #

    So beautifully written, I’m right there with you in your love of the rain. The smell of soaked grass and wet summer pavement takes me home.

  6. Orange Jammies March 17, 2014 at 11:38 am #

    chaipakoraandgupshup: Really?! I thought Phoenix is very dry!

    DFSK: Thank you!

    alice: We’ve gotta shake hands on this one. *offers a paw*

    Sheryl: I’m delighted this spans cultures. :) Or maybe you’re a past-life Indian. ;)

  7. anamikamukharji March 17, 2014 at 12:31 pm #

    This was a song, not a prose piece. I loved it. It was like rain to me

  8. Deepa March 19, 2014 at 1:30 am #

    me too! me too! You know when we first moved to bay area, me as new bride 13 years ago it rained almost continuously later winter to spring and sometimes beyond and even though the downpour(hardly that in fact!) never quite compared to the monsoons of my childhood in green Goa they sufficed. And now all I can do is long for the parched-earth-meets-water smell that never quite seems to come here. And not to mention the umbrellas and the trenches lie barely used.

  9. Orange Jammies March 19, 2014 at 12:15 pm #

    anamika: And that was not a comment, it was poetry. Love right back. xoxo

    Deepa: That sounds exactly like my arrival here! :) And gosh, the Goa monsoon is s-t-u-n-n-i-n-g. You must miss it so.

  10. Lajja March 21, 2014 at 1:13 am #

    Ah, how much I miss the smell of Geeli Mitti. Rain holds a special place in my heart and I wait each year for a downpour. I remember while growing up in India my siblings and I would anxiously wait for that first pour so we could go drench ourselfs and immerse in the joys .
    A beautifully written post that sent me back to those precious years.

  11. Orange Jammies March 22, 2014 at 1:07 pm #

    Lajja: :) Hug!

  12. Aunty G March 22, 2014 at 9:42 pm #

    Right! An OJ blog cannot pass by
    Without my who, what, how and why
    So, like it or not
    My tuppence you’ve got
    Perchance my fresh comments you didn’t espy!

  13. Orange Jammies March 25, 2014 at 2:20 pm #

    Aunty G: Welcome! Have a seat
    I was feeling quite downbeat
    No Aunty G-sound
    Clinking around
    But now I’m all complete!

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