All of a sudden, I espy a dark inky hue spreading in a thin line on the horizon, spreading insidiously, ominously...until I can see a massive storm cloud rushing in, staining the sky in its wake like some evil octopus, while the woolly little white lambs scurry off to distant fields. This mighty octopus is followed by an entire army of inkers, and very soon, a cold wind touches my cheeks, a distant growl breaks my reverie, and the invaders attack me with their weapons of cold, heavy, water-bullets. And I wonder if this rain will make me deliriously happy or inexplicably sad.
Sometimes, April can certainly be the cruellest month. The city hates summer by the time it is at its peak. The city squirms and sighs audibly, waving a broken hand fan, and mopping its brow. The city sweats on sultry evenings, when there is no breeze even under starlit skies. The city wakes up crying at night, when a big mosquito bites. The city wakes up to hot mornings, sweaty after a disturbed sleep, and, under a relentless sun, waits in a queue for sugar, and rice, and kerosene. The city grumbles and swats a fly, and wishes itself elsewhere. Somewhere, where it's raining.
That sort of thing.
But when the skies burst open one fine day, drenching my drying clothes, red chillies, and pickles, I cannot help feeling happy as I scramble to collect them all and get them home. For the duration of a mesmerized hour, I remember neither the power cut, nor the buzzing flies (both of which are very much happening at the moment), I remember neither the running shoes I had left out on the terrace the previous evening to air, nor the neighbor's kid who is prancing around in my lawn, making little muddy pools where slimy water will collect and dry into a green mold under tomorrow's sun. I do not even mind the dirty street dogs that have crowded into the entrance to my house, dripping and shaking rainwater all over the walls, traipsing around, leaving muddy footprints and a lingering smell of wet dog. I do not mind any of these things, as I stand in my balcony, watching the invading octopus army lay siege to the summer city, batter its streets ruthlessly, and bring down summer's proud bastion in a matter of minutes. I watch and remember the conquest of the spurned lover, thawing April's stony heart until it flows at my feet in rivulets, clamorously at first, and later... much later...perhaps tomorrow, with the languor of peaceful resignation, and cradling - like a mother cradling her child - yesterday's happy paper boats.
The city wakes up from the rainstorm like a drunk waking up sober on a strange street. Everything looks new, freshly painted, resplendent. Where is the drooping peepul at whose base he had passed out, mercifully? Where is the yellow shack of the chawala, with its dirty old paint peeling, and a withered wooden bench outside, where he had perched the previous evening, wondering if they'd give him something to eat, gratis?
Rip Van Winkle has woken up to a new world altogether.
What a wondrous transformation! The peepul is adorned with bright, shiny, green leaves, and tender young leaflings are sprouting from dried stubby branches! The dirty road is washed clean, as if a benevolent and super-efficient municipal corporation had toiled unceasingly at night to relay the asphalt. The old yellow shack has had a new lease of life, as if Rip has awoken 20 years in the past, not the future. Where is the cracked door post? Where are the layers of peeling paint? Where's the withered wooden bench? They're all gone, all replaced by seemingly newer, and sturdier door posts, and benches, fresher coats of paint. Drunk is the city, and drunk are all its denizens - all the animate and inanimate objects that crowd the city's consciousness night and day, winter and summer.
Of course, there's the squelching mud that squelches for days on end taking forever to dry up, and there are the mosquito larvae swimming in open drains. And there are the fat ladies in the buses who smell like washed chicken and carry pokey umbrellas that either drip rainwater all over you unapologetically, or poke you, equally unapologetically. There are the wet clothes that dry in two, even three days, and yet carry a damp smell that never leaves, no matter how much deodorant, how much perfume I spray. And there is the knee-deep muddy mix of rainwater plus drainwater plus mossy pondwater plus water draining out from terraces of people's houses, which I have to wade through, day in and day out. Surprisingly, the water does not stink. Neither does it harbor tell-tale signs of things-you-don't-want-to-know-you-waded-in. And most surprisingly, it seems to mischievously call out to the most puritan of us, to come float a paper boat in its currents - just one!
And there is also the deep, dark, dank moss that grows like a velvet carpet over wet walls, exuding a mysteriously heady smell, as if it contained the essence of tropical rainforests. And every now and then, this sheet of moss bears a small stem, a few tendrils, and a tiny, exquisitely beautiful, pale pink flower, so perfect I wonder how it survived the lashing rains. Then there used to be the giant snails that left silvery trails that Jackson Pollocked the aged walls of my erstwhile school building. They're probably still there, fewer in number, but just as active after the rain, oldies foraging under their antique shells, and complaining about the careless hordes of school brats, and the innumerable casualties underfoot. Big snails and little ones too, with little fifty-paise coin-sized shells, moving athletically among sidewalks and along wet tree trunks. While the big old boys went with a splintering crunch and left a ghastly gooey mess, the little ones crunched more deliciously, like the crunches of spicy potato wafers, or puffy golden cheese balls, or the lentil applams that my mother fried as accompaniments to Sunday sambar-avial lunches.
Not that I step on them, mind you, for they are little delicate things, intrepid and curious, and not at all shy of the proffered finger. But having moved to the topic of food, I'm not able to dwell on the fifty-paise fellows any more. Rain is tied inextricably to gastronomic indulgence. It is as if the thirst of the earth is matched by a hunger of the soul, and of the stomach, for some good, hot, piping, wholesome food. Like sambar rice, avial, spicy dry potato, and millions and millions of applams/pappadums. Or, hot, melt-in-the-mouth khichuri with the quintessential aloo bhaja, begun bhaja, and egg omelet.
Or, hot rotis and a super-hot mutton curry.
Buttery, spongy french toasts and steaming coffee.
Hot mushy Maggi.
Ginger and cardamom scented masala chai...
And all the while, a storm lashing outside, desperately dousing with icy cold water, a city that watches from windows and balconies, with a happy stomach and half-closed eyes.
Ah! I am deliriously happy. A Happy Summer followed by a Happy Monsoon. So sighing, I will walk up to my balcony and stare at the horizon, wondering if it will rain tonight...
