Cloud Cover
And suddenly this morning, a lowering sky. The clouds scudding in from the ocean are gun metal grey. Early morning faces, sleep stained and weary from the sweltering night, peer out of windows. The koel calls seductively to the clouds. Stay. Don’t leave. But the clouds ignore the upturned faces and the koel too. They seem to be in a hurry to get somewhere. The hills will perhaps have their first showers today. Here in the city, our hopes are momentarily high.
Thoughts turn to cups of hot tea and batasa (buttery, mildly salted biscuits) to dunk into said cups. Mountains of sizzling hot bhajias and a tangy spicy green chutney to accompany their destruction. Corn on the cob, dripping with chilli powder, salt and lime juice. Khichdi, soft and luscious with ghee and a mango pickle on the side. The foods of the summer, cool curds and mangoes and lightly cooked watery vegetables are a distant memory once the monsoon arrives.
Monsoon. Such a magical word. Our hearts belong to the rains in this country of endless sun. Much as the poets rhapsodise about the arrival of spring in the northern countries and a warm winter in the southern hemisphere, our poets and singers and artists celebrate megh, barsaat, saawan – the word pictures that describe a world of emotion. We who have grown old in this country, who suffer the sun eight months of the year, understand this instantly. Entire song ballads are dedicated to each sensual moment. The smell of a parched earth absorbing the first rain. The sound of thunder, the crackle of lightning. The rain that falls in sheets, steady, unchanging. The Gods ride these clouds in familiar stories from our childhood.
All this returns to the mind at the sight of that dark sky at six in the morning. In an hour, the sun is blazing defiantly in a clean blue sky and the teasing clouds are gone. Perhaps tomorrow, they will slow down. And the day after, they will hover in an overcast sky until nerves are at a screaming pitch. The air will grow still and expectant. And then finally, the clouds will deign to listen to the koel’s blandishments. They will come to stay for a while.