Heres to the Rains

A man in black another in blue, bent at their waists, valiantly pushing a white choked Maruti engine out of the choked Bandra roads.

Another monsoon…another period of camaraderie over clogged waters. Another day when we say, shit! I just had to go to office and mean it as well. Another day when mad Mumbaikers dive on three feet water- more splash than dive, actually.

When I was in the first standard or was it IInd?, I had to write a composition (thats what we used to call it) on any season. I wrote on the monsoons. But more than write, I watched and pondered and went out to experience what I later wrote about. My teacher, I do not remember, if she appreciated my piece, but I did have a great time, I remember.

Walking barefoot on the pavements with water rushing down the sloped roads. Back then the roads would be clean. We used to put salt on the earthworms and watch them squibble as they breathed their last slow breath. We would walk around with pouches of salt. Then when all the killing (killing…it was more entertainment for us!) would bore us…we would play mud splash in the play ground.

Occasional cricket balls from brothers’ gang would hit us or we would be delegated to do fielding. Till we would have had enough of being screamed at. Big brothers are terrors and like to show off that little sisters are at their beck and call. And most times little sisters are. Even opinionated little sisters who hero worship them. Like on the dry days, I would have to hold the colourful kite and walk backwards with loud instructions simple to understand but impressive when shouted. I was a kite holder. I had the responsible job of holding the kite and giving it a push upwards as it precariously made its upward flight.

In my essay on my favourite season, I described my trudge from school to home - slow and many a times backwards, with our olive-green or khaki bags with golden buckles hidden under white and blue and pink flower patterned raincoats or bright yellow ones. We would stop and peer at puddles waiting for worms to squirm out. And jump across puddles, then on puddles.

I don't think my teacher was impressed.

I remember the greens.
The wild doob grass
which would line up
the pavements of Jamshedpur. And the huge trees with huge branches swaying to the beat of rains and splattering fat drops at the hint of a shake. It was a predictable move yet we would try and douse each other underneath the massive trees. Back then Moms used to let children go out to play and explore. There was mud and greens and open roads and huge grounds and friends who would not compete over gadgets but over who could run faster. Back then there was less concrete.

Yes, the greens! I have always been fascinated with greens. It depicts a sense of peace and open spaces to me. Walking barefoot on the green grass with tiny blades pricking lightly at different points on the foot…with the sudden giving away of wet mud underneath the foot.

I tried rolling off a green slope once as they do in movies. My elbows would come in the way and I had to push sideways. It hurt when I got up with skirt all twisted and a pattern with elbow dents trailing behind me.

Madonna is singing sensuously now on VH1. Yes rains and water take a different meaning as an adult.

Like washing off holi colour in river under the bridge of 1935, like taking a dip in river Betwa, like clutching onto someone’s sleeve on a swaying tree house over swollen river Ken, like walking on empty streets by the sea the first day on a new city never visited again, amid loud cracking thunder, like feeling fat drops on naked arms and holding tight. Like lying on white Pondi sands as rain hits the face.

If the clog clears from knee deep to shin deep I shall venture out to bandstand. There is something beautiful about Rain. To me it is the feeling that Rain brings about.