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.
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.
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.
A Summer Vacation
The first
thing I did when the vacation began was to make a list. I have this habit of
making to do lists that tend to be useful at times. There is always a list at
hand. Urgent tasks, pending work, small details that might slip away especially
since the time I crossed thirty-five and seem to have acquired a talent for
forgetting. It runs in the family. I remember my aunt who, in the pre-mobile
era, carefully wrote down every important phone number in a notebook—only to
forget where she had kept the notebook itself.
This
vacation, I told myself, would be different. I thought of making healthy
changes in my diet and starting to exercise. My body resisted, my mind
wandered, but something in me wanted to persist. There were also reminders of
limitations such as high blood pressure, thyroid issues, fatigue, the
discomfort of summer heat, a lingering sense of mental unrest. I thought of
becoming a fitter person by the end of this summer vacation.
Instead,
I found myself immersed in four seasons of Never Have I Ever, caught up
in the chaos of Devi Vishwakumar’s life. It may be a show meant for teenagers,
but it stirred memories—how confusing those years had been, how uncertain I had
felt. Some emotions do not age; they simply wait for the right story to awaken
them. Around me,the TBR pile kept on accumlating: Young Forever, It’s
Easy to Be Healthy, The 5 AM Club. I read about discipline, about
transformation, about becoming a better version of oneself. The ideas were
inspiring, but inspiration, I realised, is fleeting. Still, I tried.
Then my
sleep cycles became disturbed with afternoon sleep. Sleep became erratic. The
afternoons stretched long and drowsy, the nights restless. I thought about
waking early, about the idea of brahmamuhurtham, that sacred quiet
before dawn. I have always been an evening person, but I wondered if mornings
might hold a different kind of clarity. One day, I managed it. I woke early,
walked, read, and felt, briefly, a return of something I had once known—a sense
of purpose, of alignment. It reminded me of another time, years ago, when I had
first read The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari. Back then, life had seemed
full of promise.
There
were interruptions such as travel, hospital visits, health concerns, unfinished
work waiting quietly in the background. There were days of complete inertia,
when even getting out of bed felt like an effort. Days when the question arose,
uninvited: What for? Sometimes it is just a dull heaviness, a lack of
direction, a quiet erosion of meaning.
My sole
refuge was journaling and I tried looking at the empty page with a new
understanding. It became a habit and
refuge by being a new way to make sense of inner turbulence. A way to remind
myself that my story, however small it may seem, belongs to a larger human
pattern. The days had blurred into monotony—sleep, heat, small attempts at
discipline, small failures. I walked a little, ate a little better, tried to
bring order into my surroundings. I thought about writing a book—The Diary
of a Female Quixote—a collection of reflections shaped into something meaningful.
The
desire to write comes in bursts and there are moments when you feel that you
want to record every passing moment and narrate stories about your existence. In
those moments, I am certain that I will write something worth reading,
something that will endure. By morning, the certainty fades, replaced by doubt,
by routine, by the ordinary weight of life.
I am half
way through my vacation and I walk occasionally and try to eat healthy. This
vacation did not transform me in any dramatic way. I did not complete my lists.
I did not become disciplined overnight. I did not solve the deeper questions
that trouble me. But I have made an attempt to write a summer journal and tried
in small ways to care for myself. I hope that I continue journaling though not
daily but at least whenever the burst of creativity reaches me.
