Indian Rain

We Indians are a nostalgic lot. Ask any Indian about the monsoon and they will wax eloquent. The soft patter of the rain on the window as you huddle below thick comforters sipping hot chai and watching old Hindi film songs on TV..the aroma of onion and mirchi pakoras fresh off the pan..the numerous hawkers by the sea battling to keep their fires alive against the fury of the lashing rain as they roast corn on the cob spiced with chilli powder and lemon juice..the multitude of crows perched on the balcony ledge, shaking off the water from their rain drenched feathers and cocking their heads comically..the smell of the freshly washed mud as the relentless rain pauses for a brief moment, allowing the sun to push forth feeble rays amidst the dark thunderclouds..the long months of the stifling, claustrophobic heat of the summer followed by the monsoon- touching like a kiss on expectant lips, soothing but with a passion of its own right. After all, the rain does strike a romantic chord in the most apathetic Indian. There are scores of books and poems dedicated to the delicate sentiments associated with the rain. The movies are flooded with images of scantily clad heroines soaking and dripping evoking bolder emotions.

I was no different. Long walks on Marine Drive with boyfriend number one (BF1), crowding beneath a miniscule umbrella and trying to avoid the eunuchs and beggars that tried to deter lovestruck couples from parking anywhere, longer telephone calls to boyfriend number two everytime they played "Ab ke saawan" on TV and the longest kiss with boyfriend number three (actually it was BF1 but chronologically he was 3) as we took shelter in an empty classroom. But nostalgia is a powerful inducer of amnesia. Like other Indians, I fail to mention the overflowing gutters, the sewage floating through flooded roads as you tried to wade to school in knee deep muddy water, the swarms of flies hovering over everything like a pall of doom, the stench of wet clothes unable to dry in the moisture laden air..even the romance wore the tired look of a veteran.

One monsoon, I remember walking home or rather being carried home one stormy afternoon with BF1 ..and it wasn't he who was doing the carrying. The ruthless winds steered us with the force of an army raining down on its enemy while the rain attacked us with the intensity of a million arrows. Our cozy umbrella had long surrendered any attempt at protecting us from the fury of skies. When we got home, BF1 was shivering and shaken and looked like something that even the cat might decline to bring in. I remember him recoiling from my touch and it was only when my mother, armed with towels began rubbing him vigourosly that he was jolted back into reality. The reality of my ragged boyfriend on that wet afternoon seemed like a far cry from what my memory, fed on the romantic scenes painted in countless movies, had conjured.

Eight years later, I have experienced the myriad of seasons that one is exposed to in Salt Lake City, Utah. Not easily forgettable is the cold rain pouring down in the frosty evenings. I hear it now, slamming against the large windows of my lab, as I pore over a tedious calculation. "Oh, it's raining, that's soooo romantic", I hear someone gush at my side. I look up with annoyance at the new Indian graduate student, fresh from India, hovering around me. That could have been me three years ago, I think to myself regretfully. Alas, my memories are not romantic, and time has made them even less so. Right now, all I could think of was the fact that I had to walk a long way in the chilling rain to the animal facility. And that my lab rats would get drenched and ragged and shake little droplets off their wet bodies. Just like my boyfriend had done several years ago. The comparison brings some mirth to my tired mind and I grin with amusement and get back to work.

My advice: Live each moment when you can. You never know when the seasons will change