Beneath the banyan tree, a woman sat singing ragas—her voice
supple and resonant, carrying songs that beckoned the monsoon. The land
lay parched, the sky bare of promise, and people draped in thin cottons
gathered beneath the scorching sun, their brown skins burnished by heat.
Her
ragas rippled through the blazing afternoon, offered to the gods of sky
and wind. As the notes rose and fell, the people remembered summers
when the earth had been mercifully drenched—when rain arrived
unannounced, generous, redemptive. Children lingered by the dried temple
pond, imagining the cool days when they splashed in its waters, rested
in the shade of rocks, or sat laughing with mango juice staining their
hands and faces.
The singer sang on—songs of longing and praise.
Oh rain,
long-awaited boon of the heavens,
bringer of joy to the earth and solace to its people.
Come with thunder and lightning,
soak our brown skins with delight.
I invoke you in the name of the barren soil,
the emptied rivers and lakes,
the animals and birds,
the silent trees and the waiting people.
The
songs spoke of relief—of blazing afternoons softened by the first
drops, of warm earth releasing its ancient scent, of trees adorned like
brides in fresh jewels. For the rain, incense was burned and prayers
chanted; for the rain, hopes endured. The land and its people waited.
Then, suddenly, the wind stirred.
Trees
swayed under its urgency, and grey clouds rose, bruising the sky with
the promise of release. The air thickened. The first drops
fell—tentative, then assured—and soon the rain poured down in abundance.
Thunder cracked. Lightning split the heavens.
The drought had ended.
The
city rejoiced as rain washed over open hands and uplifted faces.
Children danced and screamed with delight as water drenched their
bodies, laughter ringing through the downpour. The earth drank deeply.
The people surrendered joyfully.
And beneath the banyan tree, soaked and smiling, the singer continued—still humming the strains of Megh Malhar.
