Monsoon Musings | Verve Journal


{Photograph} by Naomi Shah

I seen the sky turning into overcast, gray clouds throwing shadows on my restive thoughts — after which, it didn’t rain. The cloudburst that will clear the air with the brand new scent of earth didn’t arrive. I remained hanging in suspense about what the long run would carry. If solely I may hear the pitter-patter on my parched terrace, I might know the place to start. The boring, lingering humidity forged a pall on my mind, and started to weigh on me like a anonymous, but ominous, premonition.

I didn’t suppose a delayed monsoon would depart me so determined, with such unfound or unknown expectations of a life that I wasn’t capable of meet or discover.

When it lastly rained, I noticed the moist palms outdoors my window they usually jogged my memory of a earlier life, the place predictions got here true. However now, the meagre downpour, that left a mere murmur, promised nothing I may rely on, so who cared about planning forward. The planet is already doomed, I figured. This time, June introduced naught however delayed and unmet desires. The turning level, when the searing warmth is doused by showers, and umbrellas take wings just like the concepts you might have been baking, has sadly been claimed by local weather change.

Now, tomorrow, with its implied water cuts and dashed agendas, is a day that I might need to postpone. The not-so-bewildered weatherman had religiously introduced every week that the rains would descend the next week, and so our calendars hung in suspense. Like a person or girl, or anyone who hasn’t been taken, and is just ready for that proper associate to point out up, outdoors their door.

When nature abandons us or turns into unfriendly, no quantity of meticulous planning can assuage the sense of sheer terror of being left alone to deal with man’s self-created predicaments. Forecasts and crystal balls may be delegated to the garbage heap, however we have to nourish our human souls that crave the acquainted sounds of returning birds and sprays of punctual rain on our windowpanes. Just like the dawn and sundown that we’re so used to witnessing — although evening and day may need blurred into each other with the infliction of screens that don’t sleep. The earth’s diurnal rhythm retains me grounded although I do know my very own physique clock has gone to hell.

Then on a Sunday, once I was languishing in my aimless nothingness, as if the sheer ready itself would precipitate a thunderous downpour, I obtained a name from an in depth buddy to affix her over a cuppa whereas watching the rain! Was she delusional, I believed to myself. Are we to make do with “chai and chatter” over Zoom now? To actually take pleasure in such a pastime, it’s important to make time stand nonetheless. And right here I used to be ready for the monsoon to reach, whereas listening to the clock ticking away to the day when the lakes would run dry.

Nonetheless, one thing inside me made me seize my trusted umbrella, neatly folded in its blue nylon case, and be part of her at a bit cafe on a avenue lined with retailers and boutiques, with awnings that appear to be mini shelters. Sanctuaries from the approaching rain, in fact. As the new tea arrived in glasses, Irani-style, and we debated about accompanying it with toast, butter and jam, there was a thunderous cloudburst! And all of a sudden, identical to that, I felt purged of all that had been pent up inside me.

Tea had by no means tasted higher, as a result of although I had been stalling life with my very own scepticism, I finally stored a promise that I had made to my long-time buddy who isn’t dry of hope. “See, I instructed you,” she stated gently, sipping her tea. “Some issues change, and a few stay the identical, however life goes on.” I then realised how a lot I had grown within the limbo of my craving.

The rain outdoors slid down from the slanting awnings and continued falling…and falling…and falling.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *