Monsoon memories

I was in Mumbai last week. The sky reflected a profusion of dull moisture-laden clouds in the puddles that lined the streets outside Mumbai airport's terminal 2. The vigorous wind blew my hair across my face as I struggled to find my name on the sign board of the hotel that was offering me a complimentary airport pickup. The sky continued to be same monochrome grayness of freshly poured concrete, interspersed only by the frequent showers, drenching passersby who hurried to dry shelters. The view from my window was depressing, the under-construction metro flyer coming up within touching distance of this fancy hotel did not do much to improve the ambiance. I wondered if the foreign business travelers would continue to patronize this hotel once metro trains roared outside their windows.

But monsoons in Mumbai have always been a time of pleasure and pain. The rains signaled the end of summer holidays that stretched endlessly and the beginning of a new school year. The skies poured liquid relief on the residents hassled by a long, unrelentingly humid summer. New books, uniforms, plastic shoes and click raincoats. Catching up with friends, braving the lashing rain that made the spanking new book covers into soggy messes and ensured everyone had a bad hair day. I remember reaching college completely drenched and leaving the umbrella in the back of the classroom to dry. With 100% atmospheric humidity, neither the clothes nor umbrellas would dry and another deluge would be waiting to accompany us on the bus ride home. Home would be a warm and welcome place where you could strip off the dripping clothes and unload the unsuspecting creatures that had hitched a ride with you - earthworms, small frogs and gods other creatures that visited us annually.

My brothers and I would sit around enjoying hot food or steaming cups of tea, exchanging war stories on our day and how we scored a victory (or usually lost to) over the rain gods. As much as I remember the monsoons, it has been a constant witness to the millions who make this maximum city their own. Learning to live with and in spite of the incessant rains, is a rite of passage that has shaped all of us who consider this place home, even when we do not live there.

I am not sure if I can become a resident of Mumbai once more. In its crazy growth the city seems to have forgotten me. Or is it me who has been banished for leaving the comfortable folds of a big city, I who once knew the bus routes and train stations on the western and central railway lines? Even as I see new flyovers, connecting roads, buildings of glass and steel that were not around when I was a little girl, Mumbai still feels like home. And I still wonder at the feelings that come up when I witness something as awe-inspiring as the monsoon in Mumbai.