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.
Seasons have flown away,
And he waits with wishful eyes,
Gazing at the ashen skies,
Each moment of each day.
She lingers in a misty cage,
Between the heaven and earth,
Trying to free her stifled mirth,
Which roars in steaming rage.
Voila! She finds the door ajar,
And out she comes with glee,
Now she can almost see,
Her love, which once seemed so far.
The rain drop gently hits the soil,
And caresses his parched face,
Glued by a tight embrace,
Passion begins to boil.
Light cracks in heaven above,
The sky in wonder shouts,
The first blade of green grass sprouts,
And consummates their love.
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?