Everyone
in India has a monsoon story. Mostly more than one.
And
none of them start with, “It was a windy afternoon and as I looked out of the
window while sipping tea, the drizzling started, slowly at first, coming down
in sheets thereon. As the rainbow appeared from afar, I contemplated swimming
in the brook up ahead, to the pitter patter in the background.”
Because
everyone I know has a monsoon story from our cities, our ever-imploding,
under-serviced, groaning-under-our-weight cities.
I
have one memorable story from each city I have lived in – Chennai, Mumbai,
Gurgaon.
And
ALL of them have to do with how I was stranded in waist deep water with nowhere
to go, and it was dark but not lonely, because there were thousands of others
stranded exactly like me. Apologies, my Gurgaon story is a little different. I
was stranded but inside my car. I don’t think I would be here writing this post
if I had been stranded outside. You don’t know why? Oh, you naïve being, don’t
ever get stranded outside a car in Gurgaon in a bid to figure out why.
Anyway,
I digress. This post isn’t about run-of-the-mill, cities flooding, cars
floating and drowning, sewage dumps opening and devouring people kind of
stories.
It
is about the spirit of the monsoons. Wait, isn’t that the spirit of Mumbai? It
is actually about the spirit of Mumbai during monsoons.
I
don’t know if this is true about other cities (definitely not Chennai) but
Mumbai wholeheartedly celebrates the rains. And like how! At the sight of the
first rains, these mad, mad people are on the roads dancing (to avoid
potholes), getting drenched in the rain (because it is too windy to carry
umbrellas) and generally getting gleeful and happier (it’s true, the grins are
wider).
Come
June-mid, consumerism goes to a high, as every store in the city announces a
monsoon sale that goes on for at least two months, running up to ‘Ganpati Bappa
Moraya’. The roads of Dadar overflow with people holding colorfully large
umbrellas big enough to engulf you, your family, and your one room kitchen
Mumbai house, as they cross the jammed and crowded roads of Khabutar Khana in a
bid to reach the stores. Matunga is a bit saner, as always, the elder sister to
its chaotic Dadar sibling, the responsible adult in the works. Here, aunties in
Lucknawi kurtas with exquisitely embroidered dupattas get down from BMWs that
they hopped into on the adjacent lane, as they make their way slowly across to
buy sarees they may never wear in their lifetime (I am your friendly
neighborhood judgmental Saree connoisseur). The malls drown under the weight of
the early morning shoppers as the trial rooms start overflowing with people and
dresses.
My
first full-fledged Mumbai monsoon was in 2008. And was it an experience or
what. I was scared stiff, tired, and forever damp. Everything got damp and
moldy, the furniture, the clothes, the footwear, the books. Even the laptop
looked at me with sad camera eyes, begging for a blanket that would keep the
dampness away. By day 3 of the season, I started asking around when this would
taper off. Remember, I grew up in the Chennai of the 90s and 00s where monsoons
lasted all of two days. That’s when some kind soul at work informed me this
will go on for 3 months. It was the most horrible time of my life, I assure
you.
We
are in 2019 now. This year, the monsoons have been quite the rage. Unlike last
year and last to last year when we were all sad the lakes (and the city
pavements) weren’t filling up fast enough, this year, Mumbai has been in over
achievement mode. Potential to be rated 5, in corporate employee parlance. But
then again, exceptional rain is only expected performance from Mumbai, hence we
will have to settle at a 3 ok.
A
colleague of mine who has recently moved from Delhi looks out every day at the
rains lashing down outside the office windows, worriedly saying “Aaj bahut
kharab lag raha hai. Ghar kaise jaayenge?” A Mumbai boy amongst us assures him
it isn’t as bad as it looks, we are on the 17th floor, too near to
the clouds to get an unbiased dataset, and anyway the weather always clears up
in half an hour in Mumbai. I am not so kind, nor do I remember I was that
scared colleague over a decade back. I guffaw and say, “It is Mumbai. It is
July. It is supposed to rain in July in Mumbai. Otherwise, how does the world
make sense?”
I am
a convert, the Mumbai type, who steps out to get drenched in the rains of the
first week, who checks the lake levels and gets happy, as if it is some personal achievement deserving of additional bonus. I am
also a convert from the beginning of the monsoon when I didn’t want my Little
Person to get any exposure to the rain to the middle of the monsoon when I
happily pick her up and take her to school come rain, or pouring rain, all the
while singing “It is raining, it is pouring.”
This
has got nothing to do with the spirit of Mumbai, which, in probability, doesn't exist, except on sensational TV channels (branded ‘news’). This is exactly what
normalizing extraordinary situations looks like. And, when habits get formed
across many years, it is hard to remember what your normal was before you got
introduced to all this madness.
