The magic of monsoon rains

In-depth feature — Words by Bindu

Photo illustration - Fountain and earth

In the months of July and August, Auroville benefitted from unexpected rains. In July 153 mm fell, against an average of 73.1= for the last 39 years. In the first three weeks of August, 195.2 mm fell, against an average of 129.7 mm for the entire month. On an annual basis, the average rain fall over the last 40 years (January 1-August 20) is 233.6 mm while in the same period in 2017, 463 mm has fallen. This means that we are above average in spite of the drought that was prevailing so far. Our shallower wells, tapping mostly into the Cuddalore Sandstone aquifer, are responding to these rains and showing signs of recovery. However, water levels in our deeper wells, tapping mostly into the Vanur Sandstone aquifer, continue to decrease. We need much more rain if we want to recharge all of our aquifers. We hope that the northeast monsoon, beginning in mid-October, will bring those rains.

The thunder growled in the distance, its baritone rumble breaking through the dance music. We looked at each other in alarm. “Oh, it may just blow away,” said the teacher airily. For, as had been the experience this summer, there were so many times when we thought it would pour down, but the clouds would just blow. So we continued with our routine, but the teacher let us off a few minutes early so that we could reach home before the storm broke.

The thunder, the flashes of lightning that ripped open the skies, the clouds dark and pregnant with vapour chased me down the road as I sped away home on my bike. My electric scooter was no match for the storm. Urgent, fat raindrops pelted down on me, stinging my face and arms. Many other commuters had pulled to the sides of the road and were huddled under whatever little shelter they could find. But the rain breathed to life that primal instinct in me, that innate longing for water, without which we surely cannot survive.

How does one ever describe the magic of the monsoon to someone who has not grown up in India? I grew up in north India, where this magic had an even stronger pull. As documented over centuries in epics, lyrics and popular songs, my heart would jump with inexplicable joy, just watching dark clouds gather over hot, dusty fields. I grew up thinking that that indescribable fragrance of freshness that the earth releases when the rain first kisses it as being the sweetest smell I have ever known. I grew up playing with my brothers and friends for endless hours in the rain – just happy to be running in the rain, splashing in the puddles, and screaming for the sheer joy of it all. Believe it or not, our favourite game was just to race through a rain puddle trailing a long stick. Ah! As a cherished ghazal goes, “Take away this wealth, take away this acquired fame; snatch away from me even my youth, but give me back the monsoons of my childhood and the paper boats that I would float on rainy days.”

My love for the monsoon persisted through my youth. As a student in the USA, I remember being homesick and calling my mother to complain that the rain simply fell steadily from the sky. There was none of the drama of the monsoon storms that I grew up. And she, in turn, would invariably call me in excitement whenever there was a good storm, for my mother, bless her heart, remains as joyful as a kid, and even though she is in her seventies, she still runs out to get wet in a rainstorm. As one grows older though, with the repetition of an experience, one starts to take things for granted. A predictable routine, from which the novelty of the experience has long been wrung dry, dogs the life of most adults. So is it with me, and with each passing year, I feel older and grayer.

But today’s storm, coming after a drought of 1.5 years, and catching me unaware as it did, rejuvenated me. Washing away the years and the responsibilities that I shoulder as an adult and filling me with the joy of the moment. I found myself singing in joy as I slipped and slid across mud roads back home. I laughed as a family of newcomers crossed me in their car, with the windows shut tight against the rain. I smiled at the developmental changes in Auroville, nostalgically remembering how in such heavy downpours, greenbelters would walk through the plateau, observing the flow of the run-off, and mentally planning where to place the contour bunds and the catchment ponds. But, above all, I was simply happy at being drenched by the rain, exulting in this unexpected change in the weather.

My mum and I would often quote to each other those lines of Wordsworth, substituting of course rain clouds for rainbows: