For the past few days, I’ve been feeling like a fraud. Because I am beginning to enjoy the rains. If you drew a sharp breath and widened your eyes upon reading this, I would fully understand. This type of attitude is unconscionable and unbecoming of anyone who is not a social media influencer. But let me explain.
My first experience of Bambai ki baarish was in 2010, when I moved to this city. It was a baptism of sorts, except that instead of holy water we were doused with a potent mix of raindrops, garbage runoff, sewage slush, radioactive waste and other such delightful components. Within my first three weeks, I contracted malaria and then proceeded to spend the next three weeks wallowing in bed. Not, all in all, a good start to living in a new city.
Admittedly, this rocky start tainted my view of the rains and as the years progressed, I continued to harbour a passionate hatred for this season. Come late June or early July, many people around me would sigh wistfully and gaze at the misted, glass walls of our office; as if the raindrops dappling the outer surface were bygone lovers. They would talk about chai samosa weather and how beautiful the city looks during the rains. I had no patience for all this. The only people who equate monsoons to chai samosa are those who have never needed to wade through knee-deep muck in the pouring rain to get to work on time. I can assure you that no amount of chai samosa can remedy the squelchiness of damp socks.
I admit that the city does have a freshly laundered look during this time. It looks brighter and shinier, particularly in those rare moments when the sun wrestles free of the clouds and its light gleams on the ubiquitous wetness. The trees look greener and more verdant; as if rejuvenated and ready to consume another year’s worth of pollution. Yes, the city does look attractive. But only if you are cloistered indoors in your cosy corner, nibbling on your samosa and sipping on your chai, while the heavens pour forth their contents on the unfortunate souls outside. The monsoons are glamourous for the privileged alone. And so, for years, when someone waxed eloquent about loving the rains, I would assume an expression nearly identical to the one Mr. Fadnavis had on his face when he congratulated Mr. Shinde on becoming the new Chief Minister of Maharashtra.
This year, however, things have been different. A few weeks ago I wrote about planning to write about the rains.
Astute readers would have noted that I spoke about the impending monsoon in a decidedly jovial and, indeed, expectant vein.
And lately, I have been the one sighing wistfully and gazing at the rain misting over the vast expanse of the sea, while sipping on my coffee with my head resting on a rain-dappled glass window1.
I am ashamed to admit it, but I appear to have devolved into a monsoon romantic. I suppose I should have seen this coming. Unlike the past twelve years, I am experiencing this monsoon as a ‘partly-employed’ person2. This means that I am not compelled to step out of the house if I am so inclined. It also means that I can take afternoon naps. These circumstances have, I believe, shifted the paradigm quite substantially.
Where once I used to view the rain as an irritation, a traffic-causing nuisance which could mean hours on the road with water flooding into the car (this has happened twice, by the way), I now treat it as an excuse to be indolent. The merest hint of a drizzle is sufficient for me to horizontally occupy the couch and shut my eyes in deep contemplation.3 A far cry, you would agree, from damp socks and malaria-fuelled fever.
Perhaps I should accept that I have changed. Maybe I should embrace this new version of myself, which can stay huddled indoors and can enjoy the rain without getting mud on his feet. Maybe I should stick my hand out of the window and giggle as I try to catch raindrops, secure in the knowledge that the rest of my body shall remain safely dry. Maybe I should breathe in the freshness of the monsoon air and fill my lungs with that earthy petrichor4.
Wait, what is that smell?
The septic tank in our building has flooded! There’s ankle-deep effluent on the ground floor! We are trapped in our houses indefinitely!
BY GODS, I HATE THE RAINS!
This sentence is included for poetic effect and I would discourage fact-checking it with statements like, “Vast expanse, my foot! I have been to your house and you can barely see a tiny sliver of the sea through a minuscule gap between two buildings.” Art is unconcerned with the truth, my friend.
When I used this term while talking to a friend, he chortled, “You mean barely-employed person”. I have uncharitable friends but at least they help generate content.
Mid-day naps ought to be taken on the couch, not the bed. Napping on the couch has an element of promiscuity, an impudence, which the homely bed cannot provide.
A promise made is a promise kept.