I get frustrated, almost cynical, when I start talking about the traffic in Bangalore or the heavily chlorinated water which gushes out of the tap every morning. The air pollution makes me nauseated and a million vehicles, all honking in unison, make my ear drums ache. Having spent most of my life in a small city, the hustle bustle of a city as big as Bangalore always leaves me a little lost. I complain incessantly about the buses that always seem to be bursting with office goers and the auto walas who ask you to part with a mini fortune for taking you to place barely two kilometres away. However, comes the month of July, bringing with it cool, crisp winds and cloudy skies, and my soul starts dancing with merriment. No matter how burdened my mind is with house hold chores and office work a blast of the fresh, monsoon air is all it takes to melt my worries away. I love the climate of Bangalore and monsoons make it all the more delightful.
What is it about this season which pleases me so much?
Monsoons are a treat for my senses, natures own sweet way of giving me a cost-free full body massage (who wants to spend thousands of rupees in a commercial spa anyway?).
The touch of the rain on my skin makes me ecstatic. A rain drop gently hits my face as I walk down the road and I look at the sky with anticipation, waiting for the clouds to explode. And after a few minutes, when they do, I become a mischievous seven year old girl once again. A soft whiff of air caresses my face and makes me beam from ear to ear. The feeling I get when my hands are wrapped around a mug of hot coffee cannot be conveyed through words.
The pitter patter of the rainfall creates a music so enchanting that it always leaves my ears wanting for more. Whenever the wind makes a swishing sound I find myself bending over the railing to listen to what they have to say. The leaves that brush against each other and whisper a secret message always leave me wonder struck.
I adore the rainy season for the myriad scents it carries. In the evening as I make my way towards home a waft of air heavily laden with the aroma of spices enters my nostrils and I know that pakodas are being deep fried in one of the neighbouring apartments. The fragrance of freshly brewed coffee never seems as alluring as it does in this season. I often find myself sauntering towards the nearest coffee shop even when a heavy load of work awaits me in the office. And what can I say about the scent of drenched earth. Every morning I stand in my balcony and take a generous dose of this earthy smell. Saying that it transports me to heaven and leaves me in a trance would be an understatement.
The recently washed flora with glistening leaves and vibrant flowers is a sight to behold. I almost giggle with childlike excitement when I watch tiny buds tossing their heads with all their might each time the wind blows a tad too strong. The trees, which sway from side to side and do a little jig of theirs, are such a pleasure to watch. The green on the plants is so delightfully fresh that I don’t mind staring at it for hours at a stretch. Nature, on the whole, seems bejeweled. The tiny raindrops on the leaves seem like little drops of emeralds; the ones on the crimson flowers, rubies. The entire spectacle is supremely majestic and yet so soothing. It relaxes my eyes immensely and makes them strain free.
At this time of the year my diet plans conveniently take a back seat as I wipe off plates full of oily samosas and pakodas one after the other. No amount of low-calorie salads and sandwiches can satiate my appetite for aloo parathas with dollops of rich butter, gulab jamuns soaked in sugar syrup and kachodis with tangy, green chutney. My taste buds spring to life at the mere thought of a buttery donut oozing steaming hot chocolate sauce or a cup of piping hot Cuppuccino making its way towards my lips. (I can feel a blast of moisture inside my mouth right now!) For the few moments that these culinary delights stay on my tongue I experience an indescribable bliss.
This season renders me nostalgic and rekindles the memories of my childhood days. Sometimes I picture my mother with her hands dipped in the pakoda batter as I sit perched on the kitchen platform yelling “Why do you have to dip your fingers in this thing? It’s so messy. Why can’t you use a spoon instead?” It has been a couple of years since I last spent a rainy evening with my mother and those delicious pakodas have still not been successfully replicated. I guess you just can’t do it with a spoon. Quite often I reminisce about those carefree days when I used to jump from one puddle to the other, splashing water on either sides each time I did so, much to the chagrin of my mother. Those innumerable games played with friends and siblings will always be etched in my mind. The joy of not attending school on account of a “rainy day” can never be forgotten.
Monsoon is the time when Nature dons its finest attire and glows like a shimmering creek. I find myself awestruck by its charm.
The minuscule drops, the lush green trees, the windy skies- all take on the responsibility of serving mankind. My senses never feel as pampered as they do in the rainy season.
I might crib about the heavy traffic and crowded buses in Bangalore but I can never thank it enough for the beautiful gift it gives me at this time of the year.
The evening sun bid farewell to the naked trees that stood silently on the banks of the golden lake. He had to leave this part of the world behind him and illuminate other horizons that waited for him in lands far far away. How they wished he wasn’t going, leaving them to face the notorious, cold blooded night which always awakened the evil spirit that resided inside them. If only he could stay there forever. If only he could revel in their joys and weep in their sorrows for every single moment each day. But that was not going to happen. It did not matter if the winds protested by refusing to sway. It did not matter if the waves stopped dancing and stood absolutely still. It did not matter if the disheartened trees shook their foliage away. He was expected to leave and that was all that mattered.
Anne sat on the banks of the lake with a bunch of yellow balloons, her emotions in sync with those of the trees and wind around her. All her protests had been ignored. All her prayers had been left unanswered. It did not matter if she loved him dearly. He was going to leave her and go away.
Anne released the balloons and watched them as they went upwards into the sky. Balloons always delighted her eight year old son and she prayed they reached heaven before he did. Her son had always been scared of living alone, all by himself. Maybe the balloons would make him smile up there and lessen his pain of parting.
Shared at: Thursday Tales
I’ve seen so many Fridays on a dry April night,
When through the verdant mesh,
Moonlight filters, pure and bright.
It flirts with the night lilies,
Plants a kiss that lends a sheen.
The silent, somber oaks.
Get a hue that’s so pristine.
But today the sinful clouds,
Have formed patches, large and small,
Oh! Patrick, Can you hear the rain fall?
Even the neighbours’ children who play their raucous game
Have mellowed down.
Do you know whom should we blame?
The old couple next door,
That hears the radio soliloquize
Seems to talk to the diamond drops.
Their comrades in a liquid guise.
The infant that lives upstairs,
Competes with nature with her bawl.
Oh! Patrick, can you hear the rain fall?
All animals that reposed under the star-lit sky.
Have been banished from their shelter.
Need we wonder why?
The home-ward bound canorous birds,
Don’t sing their soothing note.
But the agile and jocund toads,
With pride and glory, bloat.
The tiny, short-lived insects,
Seem to love their frenzied crawl.
Oh! Patrick, can you hear the rain fall?
I walk along the silken street,
Laced with trees, mighty tall.
Where purple petals kiss your feet,
Little feathers, light and small.
They drink the venomous heat away.
Their shade so cool and calm.
And to the song of life they sway,
A sweet and fragrant balm.
The morning dew on their bloom resides,
Shimmering at the crack of dawn.
Between their branches cuckoo hides,
Calling out to those who’re gone.
With their warmth and sprightly dance,
They set the street ablaze.
I find myself in a drunken trance,
Enchanted by their hue and grace
But now their lively bloom’s no more,
Their branches are nude and bare.
Gone is their fragrant charm and lure,
At a barren mass I stare.
The fiery eyes of Helios,
Cast a silent, sultry look.
The thirsty leaf of the undergrowth bows,
Like the curling edge of a worn-out book.
The morning dew has no place to lie,
On the dry, cracked ground it spills.
The cuckoos to their homeland fly,
With silence my heart fills.
Like soldiers stripped of their honour badge,
Like peacocks without their plume,
They stand without their foliage,
And wait for next year’s bloom.
On a delicate new bride.
The fragile leaves that waltz
To the music of the wind.
The verdant plains
Where lovers dance.
That pierce the darkest nights.
Sea weeds that sway
In the beds of the oceans vast.
That pine for the royal kiss.
That can cast a spell.
Oasis in the sands.
Hope of life.
A colour that soothes our hearts, our eyes.
An artist’s muse
A farmer’s delight.
Indeed it is the Colour of God…
[Picture of a plant outside my new apartment. It is so delightfully green. I just couldn’t stop myself from writing a poem]
If the scorching Sun casts its glare at you,
I’ll take you in my shade, Young One.
I’ll pamper, I’ll pray.
For every single ray of Sun,
That grazes your gentle skin,
My tear drop will roll down
And suck the heat away.
Under my wings you’ll breathe, Young One.
Until you grow,
Until you bloom,
Until you fly away.
(This picture was taken at a place called Shiva Samudram near Bangalore. The plant is called Lantana and consists of flowers made up of red, blue, orange, pink and yellow florets . The placement of the flowers and the buds in this picture makes me think that a group of “grown up flowers” are protecting their young ones which are still in the bud stage.)
References:  http://www.wikipedia.com
With diamond dew on my skin,
I breathe the chill of dawn.
The soft breeze whispers songs in my ears,
And I dance to the music they make.
But all the while I secretly wait
For the touch of life
For the warm caress
For the kiss of the morning sun.
(This picture was taken at 6:30 am when the sunlight just begins to kiss the land around my apartment)