The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain. In Bombay it falls in spades. And then some.
I have watched that romance spark in the eyes of the common or garden variety Bombayer the moment you mention rain. I have seen the gentle glow seep through their bodies, the minds numbed by the exhilaration of raindrops falling on their heads, the hearts aflame with the delights of the fresh smell of rain-drenched earth – matched only by the maternal smell of freshly-baked bread. I have watched all this and shaken my head in utter confusion, muttering, “Strange customs these natives have.”
Because, see, the only thing that can make this stinkhole any less fit for human habitation is the bloody monsoons. If there is anything that can possibly make this cesspit resemble the Augean stables (err, before they were cleaned by Hercu… (I’m assuming those who read this are familiar with Greek mythology. In the immortal words of the SMS generation, “My bad.”), it is the falling of the gentle rain upon the place beneath. Which ole Bill Shakespeare got right; this place is beneath even rain.
The smell of fresh rain on sun-scorched earth – the smell that has given billions of Indians raison d’être since the beginning of it all – doesn’t exist here; it’s replaced by the smell of fresh rain on cement, on disintegrating tarmac, on steaming dog fæces, on desiccated lives and emaciated hearts. After the first, brief, supernova-like moment of epiphany and exhilaration is over, after the first rain has made us happy to be alive again, reality claws its way back through the dark lining in the silver cloud. It is Bombay in the rains again. The roads will be clogged with traffic, muck and bad temper again. Malaria will be back as the new black, rickshaw-drivers (those of erstwhile blue-blood) will turn into were-arseholes again and my Crocs will become utterly useless. Hallelujah! We are glad to be free, human and at the mercy of the BMC.
Which is why I think I can understand why the panegyric to the monsoon. It is the gift-wrapping, the packaging, the sleight-of-hand that hides the real truth. They profess to like the rains because they’re stuck with it. Even if they didn’t, they can’t lump it. It’s there. It always will be. So might as well like it.
But yes, that one moment of epiphany – that’s worth the life. It really is.
