The First Rains of Bombay

Through the bricks of the wall, I can hear the city breathe.

It is the month of May, two thousand and fifteen. It is thirty six degrees in Bombay. Summers can exhaust you. Even if you do nothing through the day, just the heat and the sultry breeze can wear you out. Sleep becomes a difficult thing then. You just lie down on the bed, hear the teek-teek of the rotating fan, and stare outside the balcony; the dim lights still lit, shifting in the windows of the faraway buildings.

Trees that grow in Bombay bear no fruits. The thought had occurred to me as a kid. I think I was about ten years old, when I first walked the streets of Bhuleshwar with grandmother to buy raw mangoes. The women would serry around the stall. It is peak hour. See, this is Ratnagiri mango, and this one here is Langra, and that one there is Kesar. Grandma would bargain for a good price when her turn comes. We would come home after a long, tiring morning. The mangoes would be cut and dried over days in the summer Sun. The thumb size pieces would be spread on a mat by the veranda. Oldies would hover around this spread like bees, making sure that the mangoes are not lifted and eaten by children. There’s no greater joy in life than biting on a stolen piece of a soaked, dried mango. Bottles are filled with pickle. A cloth, the size of a tile, is cut-out from an old white cotton sari and carefully tied to the neck of each bottle. Some would be stored at home, some delivered to distant relatives. The pickle is old enough to be served on the dinner plate. Soon it will drizzle. The first rains of Bombay will arrive with a gushing breeze.

Through the bricks of the wall, I can hear the city breathe. And in this pronounced quite I can hear the teek-teek of the rotating fan. Outside it is pitch-dark. No flickering windows. Not even a moonbeam. I think I'm sleepy. I should sleep. I must sleep before the Sun rises and the daylight peeps through the windows. Sleep would be a difficult thing then.

The first Monsoon rains always makes you think of old things. Of your childhood: going to school on a tempo, wearing the rainy shoes bought from Bata – Mom still thinks it’s an Indian company, or else why would all the school kids in Bombay buy from that shop? The stinking socks. Water clogged shoes. Wet school-bag. The frightful thunderstorm waking you up in the middle of the night. That’s the one thing I despise about approaching Monsoons: the nocturnal thunderstorms. I wonder why they are scary only at mid-nights. Like ghosts and howling dogs. They all lose their spirit in the daylight.

Through the bricks of the wall, I can hear the city breathe. The moist air percolates through the layers of thick paint. I press my ear against the wall. I can hear first rains of Bombay pattering on the wind-shields of blazing cars. The wipers whirring speedily. The whooshing sound of wheels rolling on the tarred roads. I can hear the trotting feet of pedestrians, finding trees for shelter. Fat drops of rain slide and accumulate at the edges of the leaves. I can hear the birds flapping their wings. Suddenly, on a quiet languid day, everything seems to be moving rapidly: the birds, the leaves, the wheels, the wind. Only the clothes in the balcony, remain hung on the clothesline, tethered and drenched.

Through the bricks of the wall

I can hear

The water gently seeping through the earth

Through the bricks of the wall

I can breathe

The soothing, balsamaceous air                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

In this air, 

I can smell the redolence of damp soil                                                                                     

In this air, 

I can smell the sky

In some distant land, mango seeds are sown in the ground. Eight monsoons later a tree will flourish. Far away from Bombay, the tree will bear fruits. Packed in wooden boxes they will be shipped to the city. Raw mangoes will be sold by kilos. They will be grated to make a pickle, which will be served with hot rotis. 

Generations may pass and trees in Bombay may not bear fruits, but what will always remain would be mangoes and pickle and monsoons thereafter.