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.

Rained out?

After the dry period came the rains, and how they came, every day, sometimes all day. A wet mist settled on the mountain sides and clouds floated into the house. Keeping mold down became a constant battle and clothes and sheets were permanently wet. Dry gullies became rivers and the forest floor became filled with verdant growth. The rains were much needed but they began to wear me down a bit and I am pleased to announce that for the last two days they seem to have stopped. The sun is out again and I remembering how beautiful the hills can be.

Where is the water?

Today I was faced with a dilemma. For a few days now no water has come to our buildings and although we have made all reasonable effort to store and gather water our supplies are running seriously thin. I am constantly reminded by my neighbours of the need to only use essential water and preserve whatever pani I can. Yet, today I was tempted to give our precious remaining drops of water away. 

 

Raids on our water supply are not uncommon, by monkeys, langores and humans, normally they all can be seen off with a stick, but today when I heard the familiar sounds of someone raiding our supply I sprung upon a group of scraggly children carrying empty cantinas. Rather than run, such was there desperation (my neighbours would say their cheek) that they banged their empty cantinas and pleaded for water, saying that they were dyeing of thirst.

 

So, what to do? Should I stay faithful to my obligations to my neighbours and family and preserve as much of our rapidly diminishing water reserves as possible, or should I take pity on fellow humans lacking the most basic of human needs? 

 

In the end, I found a compromise, which only angered my household slightly and probably only appeased the children slightly. My compromise was to give them money and ask them to go to the market and use it to buy some water.  They grudgingly departed and my household later reprimanded me saying that the only thing you should give them is a hit with a stick. If you give them once they will be back for more, I was warned.

 

Water problems are nothing new in Shimla, the fact that the town was built in a dry area away from any major natural water source, such as a river. Was not a huge problem at first, however as the population expanded colonial Shimla had to increasingly wrestle with water supply. Fast forward to today and the population explosion, combined with the effects of global warming have lead to a rather desperate water situation. The people of Shimla therefore have to face dilemmas like the one I faced regularly. Most choose, perhaps sensibly, to look after there own and turn the others away. Yet, I wonder what the Father’s at the church make of this, or indeed the congregants. How is this squared with Christian ethics? I think I shall have to ask people about this on Sunday.