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Monsoon Musings | Verve Journal

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Monsoon Musings | Verve Journal

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Areas

{Photograph} by Naomi Shah

I observed the sky changing into overcast, gray clouds throwing shadows on my restive thoughts — after which, it didn’t rain. The cloudburst that might clear the air with the brand new odor of earth didn’t arrive. I remained hanging in suspense about what the longer term would carry. If solely I might hear the pitter-patter on my parched terrace, I might know the place to start. The uninteresting, lingering humidity forged a pall on my mind, and commenced to weigh on me like a anonymous, but ominous, premonition.

I didn’t suppose a delayed monsoon would depart me so determined, with such unfound or unknown expectations of a life that I wasn’t in a position to meet or discover.

When it lastly rained, I noticed the moist palms outdoors my window and so they jogged my memory of a earlier life, the place predictions got here true. However now, the meagre downpour, that left a mere murmur, promised nothing I might rely on, so who cared about planning forward. The planet is already doomed, I figured. This time, June introduced naught however delayed and unmet desires. The turning level, when the searing warmth is doused by showers, and umbrellas take wings just like the concepts you’ve got been baking, has sadly been claimed by local weather change.

Now, tomorrow, with its implied water cuts and dashed agendas, is a day that I might wish to postpone. The not-so-bewildered weatherman had religiously introduced every week that the rains would descend the next week, and so our calendars hung in suspense. Like a person or lady, or anyone who hasn’t been taken, and is solely ready for that proper accomplice to point out up, outdoors their door.

When nature abandons us or turns into unfriendly, no quantity of meticulous planning can assuage the sense of sheer terror of being left alone to deal with man’s self-created predicaments. Forecasts and crystal balls might be delegated to the garbage heap, however we have to nourish our human souls that crave the acquainted sounds of returning birds and sprays of punctual rain on our windowpanes. Just like the dawn and sundown that we’re so used to witnessing — despite the fact that evening and day might need blurred into each other with the infliction of screens that don’t sleep. The earth’s diurnal rhythm retains me grounded despite the fact that I do know my very own physique clock has gone to hell.

Then on a Sunday, after I was languishing in my aimless nothingness, as if the sheer ready itself would precipitate a thunderous downpour, I obtained a name from a detailed buddy to affix her over a cuppa whereas watching the rain! Was she delusional, I believed to myself. Are we to make do with “chai and chatter” over Zoom now? To really take pleasure in such a pastime, it’s important to make time stand nonetheless. And right here I used to be ready for the monsoon to reach, whereas listening to the clock ticking away to the day when the lakes would run dry.

Nonetheless, one thing inside me made me seize my trusted umbrella, neatly folded in its blue nylon case, and be a part of her at a little bit cafe on a avenue lined with outlets and boutiques, with awnings that appear like mini shelters. Sanctuaries from the approaching rain, in fact. As the new tea arrived in glasses, Irani-style, and we debated about accompanying it with toast, butter and jam, there was a thunderous cloudburst! And all of the sudden, identical to that, I felt purged of all that had been pent up inside me.

Tea had by no means tasted higher, as a result of despite the fact that I had been stalling life with my very own scepticism, I ultimately saved a promise that I had made to my long-time buddy who isn’t dry of hope. “See, I informed you,” she mentioned gently, sipping her tea. “Some issues change, and a few stay the identical, however life goes on.” I then realised how a lot I had grown within the limbo of my craving.

The rain outdoors slid down from the slanting awnings and continued falling…and falling…and falling.


 



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