Monsoon

There is a stillness in the air: not a state of final rest, but a slowing down to a stillness that expects to be ruptured.

Grey clouds move in grim silence, like dacoits taking position before a raid. Birds warn each other and take cover. And then gusts blow through, shaking out the brooding foliage, hustling an impromptu parade of dry leaves down the street. Any washing forgotten on the clothesline is whipped.

Do not expect the rain to fall quickly, get its business done and move on. This is India. The rain comes in stages, like a pageant.

Grey clouds move in. The gusting winds settle into a respectful stillness. Then come raindrops, plump and slow, regally drawing dark circles everywhere they land. Then, the shower, pelting every surface, joining all the circles into a big, wet shininess.

Vendors gather up their merchandise, throw blue plastic sheets on anything too big or hardy to move and bolt to stand shivering under the nearest awning. The empty streets suddenly look wider and submit themselves to an overdue scrubbing. In an Indian city, rain enforces a compliance and respect for public spaces that no civic bodies can.

Soon, the street is awash in a muddy red soup with floating garbage that won’t stay hidden in clogged drains anymore.

We need this rain to wash away the evidence of our poor civic habits. We need it to bring up a wave of guilt to treat the city streets better. We need it so we can submit to the force of something bigger than us, and retreat with our clothes clinging to our bodies and think.

The rain forces us to slow down, to take stock, to feel the warmth of our loved ones leaning against us, to eat khichdi and methi pakodas, to reflect on saawan ki ghata chhayi and the cry of koels and peacocks while we can still hear them.