by Vani Viswanathan
[box]What if rain spoke to you and told you its story? Vani Viswanathan gives the rain a human voice.[/box]You have heard many stories in your lifetime. Narrated by a myriad of people. Animals, maybe, and the occasional thing or two too. Has Rain ever told you a story? Today, I will.
Of the many tales I can tell – for, of course, I’m all over the earth – I will choose to tell you about the rains in India. It’s one of my favourite places in the world. World over, they want me, they pray to the skies for my visit, they despair when I overstay my welcome. All of this happens in India too, but why I like this land more is because rain means something there. It’s not a by-the-bye event; in this land, rains are celebrated not just in folklore, but in contemporary life. If not, would they sing about me in their traditional forms of music revered to this day, allotting certain twists of notes specifically for inviting me? Don’t you agree that nothing but the deepest emotion would have stirred me to pay heed to the croons, shed my obstinacy and indulge them with sweet, glorious rain? Or would they spend bucket-loads of water in depicting rain in their popular movies, where they dance in joy, in romance or longing, teasing the eye of the viewer with a rather skimpily clad lady enjoying in the rain? I think they love me.
Well, almost.
Different cities react differently to me. Some whoop in joy, some accept me mutely, some grumble and some are angered. I’ll tell you today about three cities that are my favourites. Their myriad reactions, how they let me enter their lives, and keep me cosy for the few months I’m there.
The first has to be Chennai. It has to be, I say, because for the way her people wish I got there sooner and wish I would solve their issues of water, they give me a fairly unceremonious welcome. No, no, do not think I don’t like them – I like them in my own, weird way, not unlike that uncle or cousin you don’t like having at your home but who is entertaining in their own way.
So this is the thing about Chennai – through sweltering summers, they crave for me. I taunt – if you can, imagine me with a sly grin on my face – and let a light drizzle trick them into momentary happiness. Of course, the drops on the ground dry up even before they realise it was a drizzle and not a sprinkler or an air-conditioner vent leaking. Through June to September they sit high and dry, hoping for respite from the weather that has definitely subdued but is still hot, as they hear of rains pouring in their neighbouring states, as they get the benefit of clouds passing over to other states with a sudden shower. Nothing sustained. They give up in frustration. Then in October, as they begin to decorate their houses with a display of dolls arranged on steps oddly numbered, I make my first appearance.
I must say I play a little unfair with them. But something makes me want to play with these guys. Like ruining their beautiful Deepavali by drenching it, making them unable to celebrate with fireworks. Or pouring down on their festival of lights, called Karthigai Deepam. For days together in November, I make their days gloomy and damp, so much so that the desperate-for-rain-ers begin to wistfully look for the sun every morning and sigh when all they see is me hogging the skies. They pull out raincoats, the less tolerant among them pull out sweaters and scarves when temperatures touch a mere 20 or 23, and they tie clothes lines that zig-zag across living rooms and bedrooms. They dread me like the plague, taking shelter under trees, under sunshades, running into shops, parking themselves under the bridge. They mutter under their breaths, swear, discuss me and the ‘depression’ in the Bengal sea that is making me more and more vicious. I don’t pity them – their infrastructure can in no way handle my ferocity, and whatever said and done, however much they complain about the summer, they are essentially sun-loving people. They want their sun shining brightly, they want their sea breeze and evenings by the beach with their varied snacks, ice cream and games such as where they shoot little balloons. By the time I bid goodbye in mid-December, they are just so relieved to see me gone, and begin dusting off their silks for the December music season, when, ironically enough, at least one singer sings my praise.
Mumbai, the second favourite, is a little different. If the children of Chennai had to live here, they’d grumble incessantly, and rightly so – I visit there from mid-June and stay on till September, when, with cries of ‘Ganpati Bappa Morya!’ they send off huge statues of the elephant god Ganesha into the seas. With Ganesha, I usually decide to get back to the seas and plan my next sojourn in Chennai. The Mumbaikars have to go through a lot of trouble, thanks to me. But I like them because they don’t complain. They know that’s who I am; it’s like you put up with a parent who gets on your nerves all the time, but you can’t say or do much because it’s your parent. For four months, I torment them, flooding their roads, railway tracks, seeping into their houses, not bothering whether they are rich or poor, ruining their grains – in general, making life miserable for one and all. But they go on, mostly unperturbed, for they are prepared, and they have seen it coming for many, many years. For months together, I go on unabated, and they go on with their lives, sometimes stacking sand bags to prevent water from entering their homes, wearing Wellingtons, managing their train timings, covering their heads with plastic bags. Umbrellas of so many kinds adorn the roads. Fungus, snails, worms seep through the walls into homes. They put up. They know it’s a welcome relief from the horrid humidity of March, April and May. They are a very resilient kind, the children of Mumbai. It makes me want to test them further, it also makes me proud.
My favourite of the lot, though, is Ahmedabad. Visiting the place just sends me into whoops of delight – imagine being the cousin from the place of delights, whose visit is being so eagerly looked forward to. When I visit for the first time after a particularly horrid summer, mothers willingly send their children out into the streets to play in the water, sometimes joining them, as the kids splash about, run, fall and roll in the waters. Traffic moves unhindered, and riders of two-wheelers tie a handkerchief to their heads as they embrace me with joy. I am, after all, bringing them the gift of a respite from the scorching sun. I am the guest they can enjoy until the cruel winter sets in, temperatures dipping into single digits making them shiver through the day. Trees, dusty green from the summer, turn a brilliant green. Dusty red soil in parks turn a deep, throbbing brown. I love these people because they want me so much – they perform prayers, marry frogs to each other – and of course, while some of them do hate me – that happens anywhere, you see – they are, for the most part, happy to see me there, unless I play truant and stay on for longer than expected, or am particularly savage.
Reading these tales, you might ask why, when I love them so much, I choose to be especially barbarous in how I treat the souls in these cities; after all, one does come across reports of incessant rain, deaths, flooding and loss of property to an extent it breaks the lives of thousands of them. And what of those who aren’t even lucky enough to have a roof over their heads? Their pavement dwellings, under-the-bridge residences, are rendered useless by me, and already starved and living unfulfilled lives, they are dragged further down.
Think of it like this. Like every one of the humans, I am also under a strange influence – of the creator, the source of power, whatever you choose to call it; I wonder why, sometimes, I am expected to be savage, and why, sometimes, I’m expected to be scarce. However, I have realised one thing – whatever I do, humans are never satisfied. I’m either in excess or insufficient, always cruel, always ruining days, always making life difficult. I have accepted it. That’s why you see me, still indulging you with a surprise on a weary, dry summer afternoon, or giving you the chills on a wintry evening. And I have accepted it, because no matter how I behave, you really need me. Really, really, need me.
Vani Viswanathan is often lost in her world of books and A R Rahman, churning out lines in her head or humming a song. Her world is one of frivolity, optimism, quietude and general chilled-ness, where there is always place for outbursts of laughter, bouts of silence, chocolate, ice cream and lots of books and endless iTunes playlists from all over the world. Vani was a Public Relations consultant in Singapore and decided to come back to homeland after seven years away to pursue her Masters in Development Studies. Vani blogs at http://chennaigalwrites.blogspot.com
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