Light
Nursing a stiff back necessitates a temporary imprisonment. And a view restricted to one window. But what a view.
The metal grill frames a badam tree and a mango tree, growing side by side. Both have new leaves, fragile and transluscent, the young mango has a few flowers too, but it seems unlikely these will survive the monsoon. The two are flanked and overhung by the gulmohars. Away in the background is the old peepal, a bit bare for this time of year, but still bravely rustling in the breeze. All these trees are only props of course – now is the time of the gulmohar, in full bloom, its bright orange-red canopy providing a contrast for the ever-changing sky.
The early mornings are shrouded in a light rain, a life-giving rain. My mosambi, planted in the earth downstairs last year, reaches for the sky. It has had the most amazing burst of life, the green stems are laden with new leaves and the thorns! Sharp, green and longer than any thorns I have yet seen outside of Africa. This little rain, this first overture of a delayed monsoon, helps growth in a way the heavy wind-swept showers cannot. Those will come later, bringing the bitter sea-water to burn the leaves, to cull the weak saplings.
The rain doesn’t last long. It retreats, leaving cloudy skies and a cool breeze as the morning grows older. The gulmohars glower sullenly under this grey, their orange muted and fulminating. The sun is uncertain. It has spent too long blazing down this year, and the clouds have finally ended its reign. So it peers out once in a while but without the strength and vigour of its summer days.
It is around noon that the magic happens these days. The clouds scud away and the blue sky dazzles my eyes as the sun finally makes up its mind and shines down, not hot and fiery but a gentle heat. Still, it is enough. The birds and the trees react to it as to an elixir. The chirping in the badam heralds the arrival of the sparrows on the balcony. A cool breeze wafts the gulmohar blossoms to carpet the balcony floor.
And then the show begins. A clear, lucid light filters down and transforms the view. I struggle to describe it. It is clean somehow, this light, it brings with it the rain- scented air and the washed blue sky. It wouldn’t be the same without these companions. The gulmohar blossoms stop glowering as they have done all morning and begin to sparkle, good mood apparent. The light touches all that it sees with this deep breath of goodwill. It is impossible to feel sorry for myself and I almost forget the dull ache in my back. The sparrows chirp happily, the parrots squawk and argue, not acrimoniously though, amongst the green badam buds.
It doesn’t last long, this luminescence. Tired after an over extended summer, the sun blazes forth for only a short while before conceding first place to the monsoon clouds. That light, though, at high noon, it is unlike any other – the world preens itself, how could it not show its best face when lit from all angles by this clean, clear gift?
The clouds return. The moment passes. And today, the monsoon arrives. Now there is no sun, no blue and white, just endless sheets falling from a steel grey and grim sky. The gulmohars bend in the wind, their blossoms rain down with abandon. The sparrows huddle on the balcony grill, silenced by this display of wet. We remember, the trees and the birds and I, the beautiful light of the past few days. But there is no regret. Now is the time of grey and water, of cool wet faces and feathers fluffed out to dry. The gulmohars will have to learn that their bright orange blossoms are just as striking against this grey sky.
I hold the memory of that half hour of lucid clarity in my mind. When the beauty of the grey sky becomes too much to bear, that memory will ease the weight of the water laden air – the blue and light shimmering through the blood orange flowers, the scent of that breeze, the warmth of that sun.