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I was woken up by a slender tube lights silent battle with the monsoon darkness that filled my house. The scene outside wasn’t very different. Nearly a fortnight after the onset of monsoon in Mumbai an army of dark clouds laid siege over the otherwise clear blue sky. The sun had virtually gone underground and would seldom make an appearance till August as if he had to honour some unwritten agreement with the monsoon. It was consistently drizzling outside as a herd of buffaloes grazed in knee deep waters just across the road, in front of my house. A dozen odd yellow beaked storks paroled the waters pecking fry and frog tadpoles. I often wondered where the fish came from in the waters that accumulated in the grounds that were dry for most part of the year. Unable to answer that I had convinced myself that they fell from the sky with the rain drops! A few storks were taking a free ride on the buffalo backs and that didn’t seem to bother them a bit. One or two of them had perched on the peripheral trees that silently stood relishing the monsoon melody. Rills of clear waters flowed across the road murmuring monsoon sonnets. Our regular baker – a Muslim fellow braved even the wet conditions with his pajama folded to the knee and head covered by a plastic sheet. Even on that day he had come at his usual time to deliver eggs and bread on his bicycle. The song
‘ Saawan Ke Jhoole Pade’ from the movie
’Jurmana’ being played on
Vividh Bharati was summing up all this.
Ready for my school complete with gumboots and raincoat, I was waiting for our maid servant, a chronic alcoholic who would walk me to my school and back home after the school which wasn’t very far away. She would take my belongings and I would walk ahead of her splashing the water puddles on my way to school. In the class room the story wasn’t very different. There would be atleast four tube lights putting up a brave battle against the monsoon darkness. Water bottles and raincoats hung from the grills of our class room windows. The noise of the rains outside would often overpower our teacher’s voice who would occasionally walk upto the window to view the situation. It seemed she enjoyed the sight of bushes and shrubs freaking out in the rains. Often the rains and the winds would soar and roar which sounded like two racing bikers at their helms in a race. At times the University building, otherwise visible from our classroom window, would start appearing as a foggy image that would completely disappear as the rains caught up and reached its helm. Only one or two Haryanvi women cutting grass in the vast stretch of marshes that lay between our school and the University campus could be seen even when the rain was at its helm – courtesy their fluorescent dresses. Suddenly our teacher rushed to the neighboring class and returned with the other teacher to show her something exciting. To this day I don’t know what it was that amused them to no end. Some said it was a shoal of fresh water fish, others said it was a pair of fresh water snakes, still others suggested it was the designs that the water flowing from roof tops had created on the mud below while still others said that it was a pair of beautiful coloured stones that had come down with rains all the way from the heavens! In the recess while all the class had gathered at the window to figure out the same, Arnold my Jewish friend, who spoke spotless Marathi whispered, “Wait after school, we will play in the water “. I agreed. Arnold met me as planned. “Let’s make waves! “ he said. So we two, all covered with raincoats, put hands across each other’s shoulders and waddled through the water making waves. Suddenly, our principal Mrs Gokhale, appeared from nowhere. She was leaving for the day. We wished her a good afternoon but concerned as she always was, “Not going home?” was all that she retorted! “Going madame”, we muttered as we headed to the schools main gate. My maid servant was waiting at the main gate. The watchman knew she was an alcoholic so they won’t let her in. Although an alcoholic she was extremely trustworthy and so she was always treated with great respect in my house inspite of her chronic alcoholism. Often she would buy me things and answer my curious questions with her little knowhow. Arnold, apart from being my class mate was a family friend since his extremely beautiful mother Julie who ran a beauty parlour in Bandra was my father’s friend. Both his parents frequented our house. His father a very fair and tall man of robust built resembled Elvis Priesley and dressed in an orthodox style. He looked more of a European but spoke fluently in Marathi. Arnold would come home on Saturdays or on half days (month ends), play on our ground and then go home. He was a tall boy, very thin and had wheatish complexion unlike both his parents and wore thick glasses. He was poor in studies and often got punished but that hardly bothered him. But then he was a very affectionate fellow. That day in his eagerness to play on slides, he broke a bottle of cosmetics that his father had asked him to deliver home to his mother. That upset him to no end and he left without playing.
My mother had bought crabs that day. She had kept a small one for me to play with. She tied the leg of the crab with a thread and handed it over to me. I took it out in the muddy waters and suddenly I could no longer feel the crab! It was gone. I desperately searched for it but it was nowhere to be seen. Aarti who stayed on the first floor and who was of the same age as me, peeped through her kitchen window and enquired as to what I was looking for. I told her the issue and she told me not to worry she would come down and help me find the crab. The very next moment she ran down the stairs and asked me as to where I had lost the crab. I showed her the spot where I had detected the loss. She remarked that the way I was searching wasn’t a correct one. Instead she suggested we splashed the water with feet so that the ground becomes visible and the crab could be seen. We tried hard that but to no avail. The crab was long gone for good!
We were done with the lunch by half past one or so. After my mother was done with all her kitchen chores, we were off to an afternoon siesta. With my father fast asleep on Deewan, my mother kept us- me and my three year old brother, apart and soon we all were fast asleep with the rain drizzling at a consistent pace outside our half open window. After the afternoon siesta, with no disturbances except for the monsoon drizzles, I was woken up by a strong odour of brewing tea. Things had changed drastically by then. It was a new picture altogether. My papa was gone. Nearly twenty seven years had passed after he had lost his battle to a chronic kidney ailment. My mother now a senior citizen, all of sixty three, had retired with her life virtually revolving around her five year old grandson. I was no more that primary going school boy anymore but all of thirty six, a father of a five year old son. My son had replaced my three and a half year old brother who was now married staying close by with his interior designer wife. As years had moved on we too had moved from Bandra to Borivali. But the very prospect of monsoons makes me nostalgic every year and I inevitably return to my roots in Bandra where I spend the most formative years of my life. But then it never rained as it used to then. The vast grounds that virtually turned into lakes in monsoon had metamorphosed into gardens and jogging tracks. And ofcourse buffaloes were not allowed in there. But actually speaking there weren’t any buffaloes left to break in! There were only swine’s that now run amok, grunting with a dozen odd piglets. The peripheral trees seemed to stretch out to the skies begging for the storks that once perched on their branches but hadn’t returned for years now. The marsh land behind our colony was lost to slums. You could no longer see the University building now and the Haryanvi women no longer ventured the fast disappearing marsh lands for grass. My old asbestos-roofed school was gone and there was a concrete building that stood in its place. I wonder if the rains made that old melody with concrete terraces as it did with the old asbestos sheets. The old play ground in our school premises had shrunk and its level was considerably raised so the rainwater merely drained away. Rills of rainwater did flow across the streets but with a difference that the water in them was muddy! And I always wonder what happened to the baker who so religiously delivered bread and eggs even in the monsoons? And then what about the hawkers who sold peanuts at dusk. And whatever happened to the hawker who sold roast corn on hand carts in monsoons and others who sold guavas, jamun, custard apples and other things on handcarts? Arnold, my Jewish friend, changed his school as his family moved out of Bandra but they were in touch on and off till my father passed away and then we lost touch completely. I wonder where he is now. In Israel I guess having his family and looking after his aging parents. Aarti is married and has a daughter Srushti and stays at Parel. Children no more wear raincoats and gumboots have left for good. No one waddles through water puddles or splish sploshes as he goes to school anymore. No one makes paper boats anymore and I too have forgotten to make one! And it’s terrible to see a child stretch out his hand to feel the rains and find that he can’t because there’s a tin shade protruding!! I wonder whether this is the end of innocence. And that of poetry as well? Hope not!! On an optimistic note I hope someday the storks will perch on the peripheral trees, fish for tadpoles and take free rides on buffalo backs. The wind and rain will soar and roar like speeding bikers and herbs and shrubs freak out in torrential rains as some school going boy will splish splosh his way through the rains and capture its essence in his own unique way to present his own version of yet another beautiful rainy day!
- Bhushan Sarmalkar (JAI).
