Monsoon rains

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Forget the ink, the milk, the blood –
all was washed clean with the flood
we rose up from the falling waters
the fallen rain's own sons and daughters
Don Paterson
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The monsoon now has hold in Shimla with 72.3 mm of rain falling last Sunday and already it has sadly begun to take human life in exchange for the life giving waters that it brings. I remember well how I longed for the long awaited Monsoon to begin in Shimla last year, for the rain to come and wash away the dust of June and bring water to those who were in such desperate need. I remember clearly the joy that I felt when the rain fell and the fun of driving along the flooded mountain passes on my scooter in the monsoon rains.

No amount of waterproof clothes could stop the rain from penetrating through and soaking the skin, but back at our humble home wet clothes would be hung-up to dry and with a cup of warm coffee and a blanket wrapped around us we would sit and watch the trees who continued to receive the kind of soaking we had just experienced.

Ingold has recently spoken about how the weather is such an important phenomenon for our experience of a place that it is strange that anthropologists don’t talk about it more often. I certainly remember the Shimla rains as transformative. They transformed the forest paths that lay about our house to waterways and the tree lined hills became carpeted with low lying vegetation. It was a breathtakingly beautiful time of the year, for me it pips the much famed Shimla snows.

Of course eventually the monsoon begins to drag, not so much the rains but the mist that comes floating into the house making it impossible to dry clothes and leaving its mark on the ceilings and walls, but that is the wonderful thing about seasons as one is ending I am always ready for the next one to begin.

That on the whole I loved the monsoon is not surprising, for I love rain in general. I was in my home town of Manchester (UK) the other week, it was cold and raining and my heart was filled with joy. I think I love all rain and in this I am therefore very different to Tagore, who while loving the monsoon rain hated the rain of the English summer. This feeling is captured in a letter that he wrote to his daughter during a summer that he spent in England:
“Shraban having crossed the oceans, has turned up in England: if it has a short stay return ticket then perhaps the poet, once he has blessed it, may soon bid it adieu. In a cold country there can be no worse companion than the rain” Tagore.

I can’t disagree with him more, I firmly believe that in both a cold country and in a cold state, like Himachal, (note the implicit essentialization of India in his letter) the rain is wonderful. It washes the earth, cleans the streets, brightens the plants and feeds my soul. But more than this, there are few better feelings in life than spending time in the cooling rain and then coming back inside and being dry while the rain continues to fall.