What is it about the weather that gives it the power to change everything? Not physically, not the raindrops or the snowflakes or the feel of the wind but something more. The wetness that soaks you and seeps deep inside, the gusts that rustle your hair on the outside and fan the embers of languid memories on the inside. What is it about the weather?
It’s raining outside (when doesn’t it in London anyway!), virtually incessant rains, a continuous patter on the panes and a chilly breeze wafting in through the open window. It’s nearly cold and I know I should shut the window but somehow I can’t get myself to, so instead I make myself a hot cup of coffee and bundle myself into a blanket and look outside. I can do this all day, forever, just look out into the rain drenched city, any city. And it conjures up so many different images. I get transported back into time - same rain, different day.
Raincoats. Pink for her and green for me. With pictures of identical colorful, open umbrellas dancing around on them. We are gently shoved into them; the hood pulled up and buttoned under the chin, the schoolbag then put and adjusted over my back while she only gets a water-bottle. A peck on the forehead for both and off we go. ‘Hold her hand, take care of her,’ being called out to me as we run towards the waiting bus. One of the first things said to me, and one of the last.
Summer vacations in Ranchi. They still lived in the old house and there is an enormous garden in the middle of which is the little clinic floating like an island. There is water everywhere after overnight rains. The four of us kids race each other to reach the clinic, outside which is a rather large puddle. We make paper boats and sail them in the puddle. The whole day spent in utter joy and oblivion from all else as we played our little rain games to return home muddy and dirty and oh-so-happy.
Overnight stay at Moulshri’s. Water fills the little balcony of their old house as it continues to rain. We splash about and jump in it much to aunty's consternation as she tries to rescue the insides of the room to which the balcony was attached.
School. Class tenth (or was it ninth). It’s raining and PV4 is late. We watch the other buses leave while we huddle in front of the chakra to save ourselves from the downpour. Then one person decides to jump out, others follow. Soon everyone is frolicking about in the rain and the conductor has to literally pull us in when the bus finally arrives.
First day at IIM Calcutta. The whole city is one big mass of water after days of endless raining. They tell me it’s usual in June here in Calcutta. I am apprehensive. Yet we brave the halting, stalled traffic to reach the campus. The lakes are brimming to their fullest and the water on the paths seems to be merging with that in the lakes. The hostel lobby is muddy and slushy from the people coming and going through it. I go to the warden’s room, am handed my keys and make my way to my new room through all the mess. Yet it all seems so beautiful. Finding it impossible the next day to find a cab into town. Moulshri walks up to an embarrassed senior of mine and asks for a hitch, he complies obligingly and rather happily.
It’s raining outside (when doesn’t it in London anyway!), virtually incessant rains, a continuous patter on the panes and a chilly breeze wafting in through the open window. It’s nearly cold and I know I should shut the window but somehow I can’t get myself to, so instead I make myself a hot cup of coffee and bundle myself into a blanket and look outside. I can do this all day, forever, just look out into the rain drenched city, any city. And it conjures up so many different images. I get transported back into time - same rain, different day.
Raincoats. Pink for her and green for me. With pictures of identical colorful, open umbrellas dancing around on them. We are gently shoved into them; the hood pulled up and buttoned under the chin, the schoolbag then put and adjusted over my back while she only gets a water-bottle. A peck on the forehead for both and off we go. ‘Hold her hand, take care of her,’ being called out to me as we run towards the waiting bus. One of the first things said to me, and one of the last.
Summer vacations in Ranchi. They still lived in the old house and there is an enormous garden in the middle of which is the little clinic floating like an island. There is water everywhere after overnight rains. The four of us kids race each other to reach the clinic, outside which is a rather large puddle. We make paper boats and sail them in the puddle. The whole day spent in utter joy and oblivion from all else as we played our little rain games to return home muddy and dirty and oh-so-happy.
Overnight stay at Moulshri’s. Water fills the little balcony of their old house as it continues to rain. We splash about and jump in it much to aunty's consternation as she tries to rescue the insides of the room to which the balcony was attached.
School. Class tenth (or was it ninth). It’s raining and PV4 is late. We watch the other buses leave while we huddle in front of the chakra to save ourselves from the downpour. Then one person decides to jump out, others follow. Soon everyone is frolicking about in the rain and the conductor has to literally pull us in when the bus finally arrives.
First day at IIM Calcutta. The whole city is one big mass of water after days of endless raining. They tell me it’s usual in June here in Calcutta. I am apprehensive. Yet we brave the halting, stalled traffic to reach the campus. The lakes are brimming to their fullest and the water on the paths seems to be merging with that in the lakes. The hostel lobby is muddy and slushy from the people coming and going through it. I go to the warden’s room, am handed my keys and make my way to my new room through all the mess. Yet it all seems so beautiful. Finding it impossible the next day to find a cab into town. Moulshri walks up to an embarrassed senior of mine and asks for a hitch, he complies obligingly and rather happily.
It’s surprising how even though these thoughts come rushing back one after the other, there are no sad ones that come to my mind. Is it that bad things don’t happen when it rains? I am sure that’s not the case but somehow in the little world inside my head, rain is the harbinger of all things good.
Even as I write this, the clouds are starting to clear a bit and odd rays of sunshine are peeking through. I hope this will pass and there is more to come. Sorry all ye English people!
