Sitting in a house that has been wisely built on a high foundation, on a part of the street where the ground swells rather than troughs, I say it’s been a wonderful monsoon in Telangana. The people down our street would come after me with their hawaii chappals, because they’ve been inundated once too many, but there it is.
(One wall is leaking with the incessant dampness and the newly laid paint is bulging along a crack. I’m suffering too, just saying.)
But *backs away cautiously* yeah, sorry, your troubles are bigger.
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One week we didn’t see the sun at all. But at least there was the reliability factor. It was raining, that was it and we wrung everything out to the max, hung clothes on the indoor clothes-rod and pressed the fans into service.
This week, it’s been hide and seek. A drizzle will come, everyone shouts and warns the neighbours, the whole family rushes out to pull the clothes off the wires (added to which is the complication of clothes pegs). I go for the drier things first, my father aims for the nearest garments. We get in each other’s way, some more shouting ensues. A rueful word and shake of the head to the neighbours who are in a similar flurry. Then soon after we’ve managed to get the hangers and hoist everything up on the perch inside, the sun comes out. C’est la vie.
To honour those grey skies, these benevolent, fierce and moody rain gods, the sudden downpours, the raging gutters, this gorgeous haiku by Susan Constable:
cloudburst
the sound of raindrops
changing size
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