pouring. drenching. pounding. drowning. rain.
When
I was in Pune, they asked me, “Did it rain in the North, in Mumbai,
when you were there?” When I was in Goa, they asked me, “Did it rain in
the North, in Pune, when you were there?” When I was in Kerala, they
asked me, “Did it rain in the North, in Goa, while you were there?”
And every time I cocked my head, eyed the clearly barren sky behind me, and thinking I was stating the obvious, replied, “no.”
In
fact I have not seen a single drop of rain for six weeks. Still chewing
on the grit of Senegal’s sand and coughing on the fumes of Mumbai’s
million motor rickshaws, a powerful thirst I have felt myself building
for exactly such of cocktail of Earthly element. And so it is with
hesitant optimism that I follow the eyes of the locals as they search
the horizon while asking me these questions of the temperament and mood
of the house and home (the North), from which emerges their revered
monsoon. Shadows of history and habit must darken (only) their sky, for
as I follow their narrowed eyes, I find that not a single cloud lends
like credibility to the claim of daily rain. They tell me that Monsoon
has yet to leave this Season’s house; that it stormed, in fact, just
the day before. But as I look around for this phantom whose presence
still clearly haunts, it seems I’ve arrived only in time to hear the
echo of the Monsoon’s last knock on a now-closed door. Yet I do not
doubt that I am, indeed, on the heel of the annual and auspicious
guest, clearly evidenced by its footsteps freshly left: the dust is
still matted and sticking softly to the ground, the palms and plants
are hues of green made so only by months of overindulgent drinking, the
driver – incredulous to clear skies - puts the roof on over our jeep,
and we don’t see any animals in the wildlife park because there’s no
need to visit the watering holes when faucets run freely from the trees.
But
this week, for the first time in three months, I put my backpack down
with the intention of staying more than three days in just one place.
Noting the pause in my pilgrimage, the Tempest of intense, rugged and
relentless experience that chased me over the Pyrenees, across Senegal,
and down the Southern coast of India has taken this opportunity to make
up lost ground in haste. As the sun goes down, my hair curls up, a clue
as clear as any that the humidity of a storm’s wet breath is now
breathing down my neck. Exhausted and thus unsuspecting and unguarded,
I go to bed. But I am startled awake when Monsoon’s midnight footsteps
approach my window and, at the same time, the reading lamp under whose
light I fell asleep, with all the electricity, goes out. Blindly
feeling my way out of bed, I approach the full-wall-window frame that
holds not glass, but only a screen, between myself and a jungle of
second-story limbs of trees. And here I search in the darkness for that
which boldly stares back at me, while unseen clouds grumble angrily and
the softly padded footsteps pick up deliberate speed. My heart races,
not with fear, but only to match the anticipation of the whetted air.
The Monsoon gasps, as it claims its long awaited prey, and at the same,
I sigh, in willing surrender to this welcomed fate.
pouring, drenching, pounding, and drowning,
indiscriminate and immobilizing,
stripping, purging, purifying, and anointing,
on the altar of the blessed and resounding,
rain.
Replenished
and revitalized, I feel my way back to the bed. But the same rhythmic
song that normally sings me to sleep, tonight, keeps me awake. Perhaps
it’s the dark hidden eyes, still staring in my window and surrounding
me, and the case of being “watched” that brings with it insomnia. Of
unknown origin this energy that ties the sheets in knots around my
tireless feet. So like I did the storm, I simply surrender to knowing
that, this night, I will not sleep.
And that’s okay. The
monsoons of rain and experience have, in perfect time, caught up to me.
And there is no better place, than in this darkness, to begin the work
of digging through and digesting what I’ve seen, done and been to
reflect, relive and revise, the ever-evolving script of my life.
