Raindrops keep falling

The monsoon is finally here – and I couldn’t be happier. 

 

There is no better feeling than when, after sweltering through ground-breaking heat for months, you wake up to the sound of a thundershower and hear raindrops beating against your window in an incessant rhythm that sings its way into your very soul. The sweet sound of the season’s first rain, heralding the start of the monsoon, is the best kind of morning alarm, and not surprisingly it had me tumbling out of bed and running to the balcony so that I could witness it first-hand.

 

The monsoon is always something that I look forward to (don’t come at me with talk of clogged roads; I simply refuse to let mundane concerns ruin the romance of the rains) but this year it came as a particular relief. Temperatures had been touching the mid to high forties with a distressing regularity and leaving home had become akin to stepping into a hot oven which wouldn’t just bake you but burn you to a crisp. So, the ten-degree drop in temperature that the rains brought was particularly welcome. 

 

As I stood on my balcony, inhaling the magical smell of petrichor (the scent the dry earth emits when rain hits it for the first time) and luxuriating in the feel of raindrops dropping on my head, I found myself transported to monsoons past and all the fun times I had had during them.

 

My earliest memories of childhood revolve around the monsoon. I remember my mother stripping me down to my frilly white underwear and letting me loose on my verandah as the rain came pouring down. She would clog the drains that led off it with pieces of cloth so that the water accumulated until it was up to shins. The giddy excitement I felt as I skidding around in the few inches of water, screaming in delight, lives on in my head so many decades later. As does my searing disappointment when she finally decided that I had had enough and dragged me away to dry me off. Left to myself, I would have wallowed in my private ‘swimming pool’ forever.

 

Perhaps it was this that triggered my love of the monsoon. But, for as long as my memory goes back, I have adored this time of the year. The magic of the horizon as it turns grey, then black; the majestic sound of thunder; the lightning flashes that electrify the sky; the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops; the freshly-washed look of the trees after a shower; I love it all.

 

And then, there are the food memories. Monsoon in our household always meant hot steaming bowls of khichdi with oodles of desi ghee floating on top, paired with a mustard oil-enhanced alu chokha for lunch. Tea would be accompanied by assorted pakoras, sprinkled with a generous dusting of chaat masala. And sometimes, as a special treat, we would get spicy shingaras (no, there are nothing like north Indian samosas) with syrupy sweet crisp jilipis (no, nothing like the north Indian jalebis) hot from the kadhai of the local mishti dokan. 

 

So, I guess it’s no surprise that my first instinct when it rains is to deep fry. Unfortunately, pakoras are not my forte so I end up making Mumbai-style kanda bhajiya which my husband loves. If I am feeling lazy then I just take out a packet of frozen alu tikkis from the freezer and shallow fry them, slathering them with green chutney or maybe even ketchup. The masala tea of my childhood has been replaced by a steaming hot cappuccino, courtesy my new-fangled coffee machine. The only childhood monsoon staple that has survived into my adulthood is the khichdi, which I rustle up the moment the sky threatens rain. 

 

Alas, it’s no longer possible to strip down to my underwear and wallow in my self-made ‘swimming pool’ as I did as a child (mustn’t frighten the neighbours!). But I do the next best thing. I leave my umbrella behind and head out to the neighbourhood park for a walk, revelling in the feel of raindrops enveloping me in their misty beauty. I walk until I am soaked to the skin. 

 

There’s no mom any more to summon me back and dry me off. So, with great reluctance, I force myself to turn back home – until the next shower beckons.

 

Monsoon Survival Kit

Some handy tips to keep you frizz-free and stress-free this rainy season

Is it my imagination or do civic services seem to get worse every monsoon? The traffic snarls increase, the number of potholes proliferate, and the flooding – even when the volume of rain is not out of the ordinary – gets more apocalyptic with every passing year.

So, I wouldn’t blame you if you regard the onset of the rainy season with dread and trepidation, wondering what fresh hell will be unleashed this monsoon. I would, in fact, understand completely, and make sympathetic noises even as you moaned and groaned.

But what good would that do you? None at all!

Which is why I have decided to compile my own Monsoon Survival Kit to provide you practical tips and advice to get through this season with your feet dry, your hair frizz-free and your sanity intact.

·       Grant yourself rainy-day holidays: When the rain is coming down so hard that complete and utter traffic dislocation seems guaranteed, call in sick. If you think that won’t wash (pun alert!) then claim to be flooded in and ask if you can work from home. Then you can hunker down on your bed (or sofa) with a nice, steaming cup of tea, and work on your laptop with one eye on the amazing monsoon sky raging and raving outside your window. And when the rain finally comes down, you can take a little balcony break to feel the fresh spray of rainwater on your face. Bliss!

·        Better still, hold over some of your annual summer leave for the monsoon. Then when everyone else is dealing with traffic jams and car breakdowns, you could be walking the beach in Goa or Kerala, getting soaked to the bone as your feet squelch across the wet sand. And while swimming in the sea may be out of the question in this season, you can still enjoy its stormy beauty as you sit at a beachside shack, knocking back some fish fry with a beer or a vodka tonic. (If the beach seems too messy, then head for the mountains to feast your eyes on the mist, the fog, and yes, the rain, from your vantage point in the hills.)

·       If you do have to go to work, then work on making your commute fun. If you are driving, load some nice rain songs on your music system or pop in the earphones to listen to your latest audio book. If you are being driven, catch up on your reading, whether it is with an e-book reader, an actual book or the Kindle app on your phone. Phone a friend you haven’t spoken to in a long time. Check out your favourite feeds on Instagram. If you can fill this empty time by doing something you enjoy, something that makes you happy, even the interminable jams won’t seem intolerable.

·       There will be several days during this season that you will find yourself marooned at home. So make sure that you have everything you need to keep yourself entertained. Subscribe to Netflix, Amazon Prime or Hotstar, so that you can binge-watch the latest shows. Make sure the liquor cabinet is well-stocked. Keep lots of microwaveable popcorn handy, so that you can replicate the movie-watching experience at home. (Added bonus: at home, unlike at the cinema, you can pair this with a glass or two of wine!)

·       But while there is a lot to be said for chilling in the dry comfort of your home when the monsoon is raging outside, you will be missing out if you just stay indoors. So, when there is a break in the rain, head out for a walk in the neighborhood park. The rain will have had a cleansing effect on all the vegetation, the leaves will be sparkling, the flowers glistening, the grass greener than ever, and the world will seem like a happier, shinier place.

·       This is the season of bad-hair weeks (rather than days). The humidity will make you sweat gallons and you will feel like washing your hair every single day when you get back home. But don’t just stop at a shampoo, pamper your hair with a frizz-free conditioner. And to make sure your ends don’t curl up by the next morning, squeeze on some frizz-free mousse for good measure before you blow-dry it. (Alternatively, you could just embrace your curly-hair avatar. But while there is something to be said for philosophical acceptance, it still smacks of defeatism to me.)

·       Whether or not you have kids of your own, this is as good a time as any to relive your childhood. As a child, rains to me always meant heading straight for the terrace to get soaked to the skin. Then, it was time for a quick shower and settling down to some chai-pakora, served up by my long-suffering mother. Now that she is no longer around, I go through the ritual all on my own. But I can feel her presence even in her absence; and I feel like a six year old again. And I have the rains to thank for that.

Raindrops keep falling...

In India we love the rain about as much as the British detest it

I was in London a couple of weeks ago and all the talk – rather predictably, I guess, given the British predilection for discussing the weather – was about how the rains were going to make a complete wash-out of September. The summer was effectively over, according to the weather forecasters, from now on it was going to be rain all the way.

The sadness and disappointment was almost palpable, as everyone agreed glumly that it was time to put away those sundresses and shorts and bring out the brollies and boots (not that you can ever quite put them away in England, which is famous for showing you all four seasons in the course of a single day). The days of balmy sunshine were over; from now on it was going to be wet, wet, wet.

As I nodded along sympathetically at my English friends, I couldn’t help marvelling at the very different attitude we in India have to the rain. We long for it during the long summer months when temperatures climb into the stratosphere. We count the days down to the arrival of the monsoon on our shores. We get rather stroppy if it doesn’t arrive on time. We measure every inch of rain to make sure that we have got our entire annual quota. We keep a jealous eye out for other cities, which may have got a little more of the downpour. And a bad monsoon can make us very bad-tempered indeed (not least because of its effect on our economy).

Oh yes, we love the rain – about as much as the Brits abhor it. You could well say that this is because those poor souls have too much of good thing, with it drizzling down every single day (at least, it certainly feels that way). And because we have to suffer through a long, hot, dusty summer, we long for the relief that the rains bring with them.

In a sense, perhaps, for our new-fangled urban ways, we are still an agricultural people at heart. And the sight of rain is an indication that we will have a good harvest this year. Remember the rain song in Lagaan, as the whole village turns out to celebrate the advent of the first monsoon showers in the village?

In India, our attitude to the rain is much like that of a small child looking out eagerly for a much-awaited treat – and then jumping with joy when it finally arrives. No matter how old you are, if you are an Indian, there is a certain sense of joy and abandon attached to the rains.

As a kid I remember stripping down to my chemise and underwear and heading straight up the terrace when the first rainstorm hit. All the children of the neighbourhood would congregate here, yelling and screaming with excitement, as they were soaked to the skin in the downpour. And once enough rain had accumulated in puddles, we would make little paper boats and sail them, having impromptu competitions to see which one of them lasted the longest in the water.

Even now that I am all grown up, there is still something irresistible about the idea of going for a walk in the rain, quite unprotected by an umbrella or a raincoat. Nothing quite matches the feel of rain water as it drops down in tiny droplets on your head or streams down your face or even gathers around your shoes making them squelch so satisfactorily.

This probably explains why rains are such a staple of romance in India – both in real life and in the movies. Young lovers walk along the beach in Juhu as it pelts down; honeymooners book themselves a cottage in Goa during the monsoons; and Hindi film heroines all the way from Mumtaz to Sridevi to Katrina obligingly slip into see-through chiffon saris before dancing in the rain with their co-stars.

Of course, it’s not all about young love alone. Rains have a special significance for families as well. Some of them drive down to the seaside or by a lake to watch the rain come down. Others hunker down to play indoor games like antakshari or dumb charades. Some spend time listening to the many songs that celebrate the season. And then there are those who make the most of rainy days by snuggling down in bed with a good book and a piping hot cup of tea (much as the English would make the most of sunny days by basking in the garden, with a glass of gin and tonic or a tumbler of Pimms within reach).

Needless to say, a whole school of cuisine has been built around the monsoons. In the north, the first sign of showers has the matriarch of the house setting on a pan of oil to deep-fry some pakoras. In Bengal, the rain is the signal to cook some khichuri with lots of ghee floating on top. In Gujarat, it’s time for some daal vada with chillies and salted onions for added oomph. And in Maharashtra, they bring on the gavati chaha (grass tea) and sabudana vadas.

As for me, the rains are just the perfect excuse to take a day off, sit well back on the balcony, and simply watch the sky pour down. The cup of tea is strictly optional though I wouldn’t say no to pakoras if anyone asked me nicely.