banalspeak

Mausam ki Jaankaari

"Rain rain go away,
Come again another day,
Little Johnny wants to play,
Rain rain go to Spain."

The first rains are always a joy. The whole scenery is peppered with generous helpings of green and then there's the smell of the wet mud. Good signs for the writer suffering from a writer's block to have yet another dig at the tried and tested metre of alluding to his drenched surroundings, perhaps. It turns out to be such a enthusing experience to see, when after the harsh n humid clime(as a run up till when the monsoons bless), the rain just instigates the drains and the numerous potholes and the caches to overflow humongously (readers can prepare themselves for reading this banality, if they still are, and the irritatingly ubiquitous parantheses by recalling the Coleridge-speak: “water, water, everywhere..”) . The non-descript umbrellas suddenly have a life of their own. Belligerently squirming and squabbling, the black cloth is in loggerheads with the metal rods and the hands that hold them. People who don't possess them on self or were too stupid as not to have listened to their wives when they were told to leave their homes with an umbrella, would be ducking for cover for the nearest shelter which, however dilapitated, would suffice and protect - the scene is animated.

What happens when the rains just won’t stop for days at end? I mean I'm blessed with this boon of not having to wake up till the afternoon, 'coz my classes haven't yet started and Morpheus is allowed to just lull me on to glory. An affair adding to your already 'topping-the-scales' levels of lethargy. But after I do wake up and get done with matters of personal hygiene, I need to go out and get a 'brunch' (not 'coz its fashionable, as you would have made out, but 'coz that’s how it is. Well okay, so portmanteaus ARE en vogue!) and my pack of cigarettes. Here's the killjoy. The incessant rain duly supported by this git called 'the strong gust of wind' makes it literally impossible to get out without being showered by, what the people of yore liked to fancy as, the piss from the Cornucopia that is the bladder of the Gods. I curl-up back in my bed. And then this slight ray of hope (sunshine?) concurs as soon as the rain stops. Or so I think. I venture outside and bang, right there, is the next spell of showers. Now that you are out, you would rather not prefer to start back, and would keep walking on to the nearest place for food n fags, would'nt you? An effort akin to dips in a pool, albeit with your clothes on. Then there's the dirt all over the place assuring at least a handful of baths (you see, I may be a Piscean and fishes may love the water, but I detest having a bath). Sludge, slimy sediments and what have you, no siree, it sucks! Gene Kelly sure should have been paid a lot to go about Singin' in the Rain.

Singing!? Imagine.

I would have to go back and change into warm clothes, when I already have run a huge bill on my laundry and was counting on this sartorial status-quo for maybe a couple of days more. The weather renders me with this worst kind of redundancy that puts me up in the league of the Rumpleteltskins . To top it all, just when I thought that I'll play along, supine, in my cosy room, the electric supply does a volt(e) face. I feel wasted.

Damn you Mr.Weather-god!

"...."

I've already downed my food and have the cigs to smoke and my books to fall back on (albeit after the electric supply resumes in my hostel room). And maybe, just maybe, I am ranting for no reason. And that objectively, the monsoon being that endower to the numerous farmlands of a primarily agricultural economy and the death knell to the nagging heat waves, is quintessential. A symbol of Plentitude, perhaps. Moreover, its worse in Mumbai every year, with just the first showers needed to bring the pulsating city to a standstill. This realisation should cancel out the discomfort I’m feeling this depressing Friday evening. I hope so. For the time being though, outside, its raining cats, dogs and Trichur Pooram elephants*.

*Trichur Pooram is the annual festival held in the district of Trichur, in Kerala, showcasing the legendary face-off between two rival Temples (the Gods would be pleased) with garish opulences of music, fireworks, elephants, pomp and vigour.

p.s: It might, forgive my audacity, interest the reader to know that the current supply got cut for about 4 times while I was trying to upload this post. It’s been a soiree of ctrl-c’s and ctrl-v’s ad nauseum since then. I luurvve monsoons.

posted by thebanalsprite @ 9:46 AM