Mumbai Monsoon

How can I not write about the monsoon? For many endless months, Bombay is slow cooked by the sun (I am resisting the thought of giving the sun some suitable well-deserved adjectives here), in seething humidity, like the dum style of cooking. Dum Aloo, or Dum Pukht. Soon it is time for schools to reopen and the sky is not even turning grey. The monsoons are late. Again. Maybe they should now officially declare the date of arrival of monsoons a couple of weeks later than the usual time. And the weather bureau of our fair city has a fine sense of humour. Either that or it is a sadistic wretch. Every week the bureau predicts rains for next week. For quite a few weeks.

You can see the tension building up. Everywhere, in every conversation, the weather has a compulsory mention. Often, a guest appearance turns into a full fledged discussion involving the past years, sometimes past decades or even spanning back to a few centuries when the monsoons were much more obliging. People like me talk about how the first couple of days of school was almost always called off due to heavy rains. My uncles and aunts would recall their school days when they had so often literally waded to school holding each others’ hands and how my youngest uncle once nearly drowned near Gandhi Market. And my assorted grandmothers and great aunts… well, they mostly ramble, so never mind them, the sweet souls.

And in the meantime, the clouds stoically refuse to visit us in their usual wayward fashion. The RJs on radio try to cheer us up by declaring a new “monsoon magic” contest, or doing a countdown although every couple of days they have to rearrange the numbers. MRF tyres have their “x number of days to the rains” adverts which again have to be modified a bit now and then. Then the geographical countdown begins. “Rains lashed the southern tip of Kerala. This means Mumbai will get some relief within a week.” The next day: “A trough of depression in the southern Konkan coast means that the monsoon onslaught may be delayed by a further few days.” (or something like that) Alright, you can put that umbrella-oiling off for another week.

My aunt in Udupi informs us next that their town is nearly drowning in the rains. Right. The past few years have taught us not to take this as a positive sign. It may or may not mean good news for us here. Presently the sky starts darkening its brow. The atmosphere feels heavy, literally. Like some suspense building up, waiting to explode. The heat and humidity is oppressive, unbearable.

And finally, at long last, the skies break open. It is sheer bliss raining down on us. The RJs go crazy and perform a little jig. Every second song on every radio channel is on the rains. The ones that are not themed on the rains are labelled as tributes to the monsoon anyway. People forget to carry their umbrellas, get soaked, get scolded by their mothers or wives and love it. Children get their first taste of heaven for the season when school is called off because of heavy rains. The waves grow gigantic and threatening in Marine Drive and Worli seaface and youngsters try to be brave and walk along the parapet nevertheless. Bhuttawaalas materialise from nowhere and we have hot, yummy, charcoaly corn to munch on while trying to balance the open umbrella simultaneously with our other hand.

Of course there are minor inconveniences like stuffy buses and trains, sludge and unspeakable objects floating by the footpaths, black grime that refuses to be washed off our clothes, sewage water mixing with the rain water… but let’s talk about all that later, perhaps after the skies have turned blue once again.

For now, Mumbai is magical and romantic in the monsoons. Please turn up the volume, Mister RJ, that is my rain song you are playing.