Varshaa: Rain Melodies

In one of his stories, the celebrated Malayalam writer T. Padmanabhan writes of a man who loves to listen to the sounds of rain so much that he takes a cassette of rain-sounds with him abroad. When he feels homesick, he listens to the sounds of rain- the sudden outburst, the pitter patter of rain on the roof, on the ground and to the sounds of occasional thunderbolts. The rain has always held a fascination for artists and is a constantly celebrated theme in Indian literature and films. 

The theme of the rain is explored by the artists Jason J.Nair and Aby in Varshaa: Rain Melodies, a collection of five rain melodies that inspire both creativity and nostalgia. Though it bursts on you unawares and creates plenty of inconvenience, the rain serves as a muse or a source of inspiration for many writers and artistes. The rain pitter-pattering outside, the sound of thunderbolts flashes of thunder across the sky, the wait for the rains symbolised by the dance of the peacocks or the memories of getting drenched unexpectedly, there are so many threads that come together on listening to these rain melodies.

The Story Teller

Life was an open book;
Everyone knew everything
About her life and times,
And she was a storyteller
Creating happy endings
In the worlds to come.

There were adventures
Waiting to be written down.
When the words came to her
She set them in a beautiful script
With happiness, prosperity and love,
For themes in everyday life.

She was blessed with abundance
With music, books and coffee,
And always had anything she wanted
From the deepest desire of her hearts
And the lovestory that she wrote

Always had a good ending. 

#definitions

Journal: Serious and Trivial

The pages of my journal await to record a few thoughts. These could serious, trivial or even a mixture of both just like life. All these rambling thoughts were gathered from the same quixotic heart that has loved to dream, to fly, to win and to keep.

The serious thoughts were all about love and the longing to be with the one you love and the need to make him your heart's anchorage and sacred space, how from a chance acquaintance he grew into my world and how this love is celebrated in an alternate universe of togetherness. 

The trivial thoughts were scribbled on early mornings as a bundle of words in the dream journal as a celebration of the pure delight of being alive, when a burst of fresh air, a bit of bright blue sky or a belief in the goodness of life were more than enough to keep this heart on cloud nine. 

But the best ones are the mixed ones, a little serious and a little trivial about things that celebrate the joy of life that finds room in today's dream journal. 

Evenings at the Indian Coffee House

In this middle age, I wonder how life has turned out to be, so different from the images that I had when someone asked me to imagine how life will be after ten years. I have always dreamt of you at my side as my life-partner, with two lovely children of ours to greet the days, a comfortable set of old friends to grow old together and a cosy little home that I took time to decorate with curios from the places we visited together as a couple and a huge library of all the books that we used to read. 

But when I reached this milestone all I have is a history of losses- the disappointment of a broken love that almost came to fruition, the years spent trying to pull yourself back together, the indifference of your loved ones, the absence of real friends and the lacks that are spelt so clearly and in bold letters everyday. It has been years since you called anyone a friend as you have only acquiantances and you never offer a shoulder to cry as you used to do before nor ask solace from anyone despite of being miserable and broken. You wear a brave face in the crowds and break down miserably in your solitude as you plod on with your busy everyday life. 

Then in the evenings and weekends you form a bond with your workmate and share the same sense of joy at the aroma of freshly ground coffee and piping hot Masala dosa at your favourite haunt, the old Coffee House in the city. On some busy days, you have to scream to make your companion understand what you are trying to say, all amidst the hustle and bustle of the staff in the old Coffeehouse, full of life. 

Over a period of months, we form a unique bond, minus our histories and sad luggage, looking forward to what is served on the menu only with a common love shared for solitary hangouts be it an evening by the seashore or a quiet swim in the nearby river. Gradually, your sad face attains a brightness of being loved in return without knowing any of your past  wounds and your time is spent in tasting the old brew of hot coffee and eating the same Masala dosas. We write a life of being in the moment -looking forward to our days of favourite comfort food at our favourite hangout.

Earworm

You play like a song that is stuck in my head even though the passage of time has brought so many changes. You have stayed like a persistent song and you are the place where my thoughts end, the place where they reach home. 

Once we were wanderers in the strange lands and went through the different phases of being the dreamer, the nurturer and the wanderer. Our outwardly selves were quiet but we loved dancing to wild beats of music and at the same time loved our silences. 

Now, though the years have gone so by, your memory plays in my being like a soulful monsoon melody. For those who are wiser advise that to cure one earworm, you need another one but my thoughts find you as their home. 

For when I met you, I never knew that you are my perfect earworm ever possible, one that stays my favourite and that I will never get bored even if it plays from morning till midnight.

Green Again

A bit of bright blue sky to sing aloud;
A pelt of rain to sleep comfortably;
A bit of thunder and lightning to look
And feel brave and happy at times.

The swooping  airshow by the kites;
Caught by the eye and not on the lens,
The evening palettes in hues of blue,
That brings back some thoughts of you.

Like a chorus in a song, you play nonstop,
While I watch the skies and the rain,
Look at the fresh green banyan leaves
Turn wan in the summer sun like me.

The tiny heart-shaped leaves will flicker,
And our hearts will turn green once again.

Journal: Serious and Trivial

The pages of my journal await to record a few thoughts. These could serious, trivial or even a mixture of both just like life. All these rambling thoughts were gathered from the same quixotic heart that has loved to dream, to fly, to win and to endure.

The serious thoughts were all about love and the longing to be with the one you love and the need to make him your heart's anchorage and sacred space, how from a chance acquaintance he grew into my world and how this love is celebrated in an alternate universe of togetherness.

The trivial thoughts were scribbled on early mornings as a bundle of words in the dream journal as a celebration of the pure delight of being alive, when a burst of fresh air, a bit of bright blue sky or a belief in the goodness of life were more than enough to keep this heart on cloud nine.

But the best ones are the mixed ones, a little serious and a little trivial about things that celebrate the joy of life that finds room in today's dream journal. 

Melodies New

Pic Courtesy: The Web

When the sun shines and the moon fades early morning,
While birds sing in trees and the morning is wet with rain,
The wind blowing and hooting along with the noisy raindrops,
You come in my heart as goose bumps and memories,
Your hand holding mine in words that I cannot remember,
You are the rain; you are the rain that made my world spring.

For years my barriers were high, but this moment they’re lost,
For days my heart was barren, without love, now full of love,
Singing melodies and missing my self that was there before you,
Slowly eating away my heart as you go away even a minute,
Again you become rain kissing the leaves, the earth and me,
As nature springs up in delight with rain, I’m alive with you.

Though far away you walked, on a tender moonlit night,
With moon a crescent hung like an ornament from sky,
Your face lit with love, your eyes glittering as you smiled,
Your love as memorable as the moonlit night you left;
My heart remembers you yet knows there’s no going back,
There’s no going back to what we were to each other.

There’s no going back except in dreams and days like this:
When memories are singing along with my frozen heart,
When nature reminds, resurrects and buries emotions,
Like heartbeats that once stopped and ran with your smile;
To feel the love that we made our home in a distant land,
Long ago and far away in the world of forgotten dreams.

Secrets

There are no skeletons in the cupboard. There are no secrets carried from the family. What I see instead are the necessities of everyday life—coffee, sugar, bread, and tea. Yet tucked away among these ordinary things are remnants of old emotions: the daily activities of a housewife toiling in the kitchen and scrubbing the floors and kitchen utensils. 

The memories from a dysfunctional family remains-  a few broken loves from the past and memories of a family that once burned with the intensity of an inferno, only to be replaced by another as the years passed. Much of life has been spent in words. Some became precious gems, treasured and preserved through time. Others dissolved into silence, while a few transformed into songs of remembrance that continue to echo through the mind. 

There were moments of passion and upheaval, a purple riot of emotions that ran through the years, bled into experience, and eventually settled into a profound silence of its own making.The days themselves were often ordinary, filled with routine, mistakes, and small absurdities. Yet they were always balanced by the world of imagination. 

In shades of midnight blue, fantasies breathed life into forgotten stories and resurrected memories long buried beneath the weight of passing years. They uncovered dreams that had once been abandoned and revealed how much of the past still lingered beneath the surface.

Looking back now, most secrets have faded away with time. However, there are words that one write once in a while of forgotten loves and memories, of losses, victories and the many wanderings of the hearts among paths that it liked . They remain along with its obsessive thoughts of a single enduring love- you. 

Under the banyan tree

Under the huge banyan tree
Who loves to sit with me,
And sing his soulful songs,
Watch the tender leaves flicker-
Come here, come here, come here!
Here we shall live
With no worries
All through this summer.


Our dreams soar sky high
Forever in the sunshine
Happy where we are
Happy with what we have
Come here, come here, come here!
Here we shall love
With no fears
All through this summer.

The Unsent Letters

 

Ships that pass in the night

In the days of our togetherness, I always thought that you will be the kind of love that will stay with me forever. You were so full of life with a warm love-light in your eyes, with bounce in your steps and a well-measured choice of words. 

I thought I had found my fairy land with you where everyday was magical with my princess life and the countless songs that you croon everyday. 

For me, you were my soul connection, a bond that was formed in an instant when your eyes met mine. In a few days' time, you changed from a stranger and became my entire world. 

Looking back, I see that you were nothing But like ships that pass in the night in real- one that stayed only for a while. 

The monsoons

After much awaiting, the monsoons arrive quenching the wrath of the scorching summer that has gone by and you celebrate its advent along with nature. You forget the harshness of the summer season and the days spent expecting news of the arrival of the rains.

You recollect the burning heat of the summer season, the cool  summer drinks that offered you comfort, the visits to the beach that were part of the plan to soak yourself in the sea and the soothing baths that helped you sleep at night.

You sing the songs of the monsoon along with the rain and you love listening to the pitter patter of the raindrops on the roof. You rejoice by getting soaked to the bones in the first rain and enjoy it so much that your miserable summer is forgotten. 

Your mornings are spent snuggling inside your warm blanket listening to the pitter-patter of rain falling rhythmically on the tin roof.
 

Letters to the Self

Dear Self,

I clearly remember the day I first saw a song on YouTube titled Ajitha Hare. I scrolled past it without listening, not knowing that it would one day become such an inseparable part of my inner world. Later, I came across a version sung by Gowri Lekshmi and something about it lingered within me for days. I listened to it again and again until I slowly learnt to sing it myself.

Only later did I discover that it was a Kathakali padam, woven into the rich cultural tradition of Kerala. From there began a quiet journey through its many renditions, each carrying its own emotion, devotion, and depth. Somewhere along the way, the song stopped being just music and became a refuge — a place of solace from the noise and restlessness of the outside world.

When I look back now, I feel grateful for the day the song entered my life. I think you feel different about the whole experience of listening to it. would not feel quite the same without it. Even today, I return to Ajitha Hare not merely to listen, but to lose myself completely in the beauty of the song and the timeless spirit of the Kathakali padam.

Love,

Self

Daily

My heart has always yearned to explore the world with you by my side-to wander through uncharted lands, to discover hidden gems of beauty and to find beauty in the simplest of things. I have always dreamed of waking up next to you by my side and watch the streak of dawn across the sky.

One of my deepest desires is to visit my ancestral home near the River Green, to witness the majestic snakeboats gliding effortlessly across the water during the Onam festival. I long to feel the cool water envelop me, to laugh like a carefree child, and to relive the joy of my childhood.

I also hope to visit the old graveyard where my loved ones rest, to pay my respects to those who have passed on, and to remember the stories of their lives. Perhaps, in the silence of the graveyard, I will find a glimpse of the love and beauty that has been lost with time.

My dreams are not just about places and experiences, but also about the emotions and connections that make life worth living. I yearn to find love again, to rediscover the beauty that has faded with time, and to relearn the art of smiling like a child, with abandon and joy.

And, maybe, I'll find the courage to wear a spot of sindhoor on my forehead, like a newly wed woman, with pride and happiness in my heart. To feel the warmth of love and connection, to know that I am cherished and to radiate joy and contentment.

These are my dreams, my desires, and my hopes- to live life to the fullest, to love without fear, and to find beauty in every moment, with you by my side.

Rain Raga

Beneath the banyan tree, a woman sat singing some ragas. She was singing in her melodious voice some songs that invited the monsoons.  The land was dried up and the sky devoid of any trace of rain and the people draped in cottons gathered around with the sun scorching their brown skins.

The ragas reverberated in the blazing summers and were offered to the gods of the sky and the wind and the people remembered all the occasions when the land was blessed with rain in the scorching summer season. The children from the village played by the dried up temple pond, thinking of the days where they splashed in the cool water, sat idly in the cool recesses of the rocks, or sat chattering with the juice of ripe mangoes oozing on their hands and faces.

The singer went on singing and the people listened to the songs that praised the advent of the rains: oh you rain; much awaited the boon of heavens that brings joy to the earth, solace to the people, oh you rain, come with thunder and lightning and soak our brown skins with delight. Oh rain, the fulfilment of forecasts and incessant prayers, I invoke you in the names of the barren earth, the dried up rivers and lakes, the animals and birds, the silent trees and the people on earth.

The rains were invoked to end the blazing afternoons of summer heat with the first drops of summer rain and you set the warm smell of earth rising and you bedeck trees with jewels like brides, from furnace hot afternoons to nights of restless pace. It is for the rains, incense is burnt and prayers chanted and it is for you, the comforter on hot summer days. The land and the people waited for the comfort offered by the summer rains. However, the singer went on crooning the rain songs and soon and suddenly a wind blew over the land. The trees began to sway with the gust of wind and grey clouds rose to silhouette the sky with hints of a sudden outburst.

Then it started raining heavily. With the advent of the rain clouds, the entire city rejoiced as the wait was over. The days of drought are finally over and the soft rain pelted over the crowd with bolts of thunder and lightning. The people received in open hands stretched to skies what the heavens granted as comfort from the scorching heat of Indian summer. The rain fell over the land and the people danced in the rain with the beaming children screaming with delight when the droplets of rain drenched their brown bodies. The singer sat drenched still humming the megh malhar raga.

Dreamtime

 

This is the part of the dreaming earth that you become part of when you sleep or when you reach the ecstasy of creation, the place from where you learn the mysteries of the universe, from this deep slumber where you wake up refreshed and rejuvenated. 

The place where your flow activities take you, where you lose your sense of time and you step into kairos time and return back to chronos time having been part of creative forces. 

The place where your body rests in the rhythms of nature, in the cycles of sun, moon and the transits of the planets and you feel one with life in the universe. Then, this food that you eat and the love that you cherish becomes medicine that feeds your joy of living. 

You learn that all this knowledge shared in the times about this universe is all relative and arbitrary; that you need to learn wisdom from the wise to help you live better and to trust your own intuition so that you can recognise what your heart wants. 

This rest, this break, this act of doing nothing but rest and sleep and restore has been nothing but magic, of trusting in the divine timing of the universe. 

A House for Mr. Biswas

He thought of the house as his own, though for years it had been irretrievably mortgaged. And during these months of illness and despair he was struck again and again by the wonder of being in his own house, the audacity of it: to walk in through his own front gate, to bar entry to whoever he wished, to close his doors and windows every night, to hear no noises except those of his family, to wander freely from room to room and about his yard, instead of being condemned, as before, to retire the moment he got home to the crowded room in one or the other of Mrs. Tulsi’s houses, crowded with Shama’s sisters, their husbands, their children. As a boy he had moved from one house of strangers to another; and since his marriage he felt he had lived nowhere but in the houses of the Tulsis, at Hanuman House in Arwacas, in the decaying wooden house at Shorthills, in the clumsy concrete house in Port of Spain. And now at the end he found himself in his own house, on his own half-lot of land, his own portion of the earth. That he should have been responsible for this seemed to him, in these last months, stupendous.

A House for Mr. Biswas (1961) is V.S. Naipaul’s third novel and deals with the life of Mohun Biswas, an Indian settler in Trinidad and his struggles to have a house of his own. Born the wrong way and considered to be unlucky by his parents, his prank leads to the death of his father. His mother and the four children are separated, Mohun taken into the care of his aunt Tara and her husband Ajodha. To earn a living, he works as a painter of signs and falls in love with Shama of the Tulsi family.

The Tulsi family is a joint family with the mother Mrs. Tulsi, her two sons, her sister and family, her fourteen daughters, their husbands and children, all living under the same roof. He longs for a house of his own and builds two, one of which blows off in the storm and the other catches fire. His struggles to have a house of his own that be “unaccomodated and unhoused” is the theme of the novel.

After years of poverty and humiliation, Biswas gets a job as a news reporter and his fortunes change. He saves money and when his son Anand is humiliated by Owad, the present Tulsi patriarch, he buys a house and takes Shama and his four children there. The house has so many faults that he did not notice but then it is his own and he dies there.

The novel portrays the lives of Hindus in the West Indies and the joint family system is humorously portrayed especially the nicknames that Mohun Biswas devises for his mother-in-law and his brother-in-laws. At the same time, there is pathos in the rootlessness and humiliation that a poor migrant has to suffer in an alien land. A House for Mr. Biswas combines both laughter and tears to depict a man’s attempt to find his self and his own "privacy and space" as Naipaul himself says in his BBC Interview.

The Wanderers

You were a wanderer who left behind your hometown to start a new life, to prove yourself in the eyes of your near and dear ones. I was a dreamer who could listen with wonder to your ramblings and walk with you everywhere, one who could go places without leaving my favourite armchair.  

In the many years of absence from each other, you and I travelled together across many exotic lands. From these wanderings, we have gathered so much of wisdom and have arrived at a place of mutual understanding. I stand alone in crowds yet walk with you in green fields at the same time. I run in many new paths sitting at my armchair though I never leave my  world but for fresh signs or old paths. 

You are my other self, whom I do not know for I have never seen you as you really are, for I was struck blind by your light. Yet I know you were with me in each and every circle round the holy fire and will find you near me in every dream.  

You are my favourite daydream that I return to time and again just to hold your hand in an unreal realm where rules don't matter and hearts speak only the truth. In another world, in a different circle of life, you and I will win our eternal game of love.  

In the long years you have been away, I have glimpsed you in many forms but not in real but I still remember your strong belief in sticking to your dreams and nothing else. For me, who have lately started following your footsteps, the world looks new and vistas inviting.  

May be this is not a dream at all but a piece taken out of tattered lives like yours and mine, but when these words come to fruition, it is more achingly perfect than anything else heard, felt or seen. And, together we travel across the blue waters resting in an understanding that goes beyond words with a love that recompenses the eons lost and gone. 

Her people