Overcast sky, humid air, clean and shiny green leaves, wet ground - all the associated images of a monsoon July day in India!
With variations in shades of colour, intensity of the rain and the humidity pressing you down all over India (almost) you can feel, smell and see and experience this wonderful magical monsoon. South East coast has a separate tryst with the twin of this monsoon later. Still, July feels like this in Chennai too.
This time, my mind slides back to the days in the 1980s - I sometimes could hear the steady downpour across the slopes of Himalayas, falling over the trees on to the slushy mountain roads; a sudden gust of wind bringing the invigorating aroma of medicinal herbs and the mouth-watering smell of apples slowly ripening. Why! I could even visualise the darkness spreading during the day! And the sense of joy and excitement to be sharing this with my loving and indulgent husband!
I manage to watch the working of the mind, the myriad thoughts whirring past like fast moving slides, from outside like an observer.
It moves back to those early 1970s when I used to travel by city bus to go to college.
I am always in love with the rains and the mornings after a good spell of rain is so romantic! So I relived those moments in the bus when the bus turns around the elephant statue to climb on to the bridge across Vaigai river. Sometimes, after heavy rains water would be flowing over the lower bridge and the river would be flowing with a roar with eddies and whirls. The day to day concerns would fade away when I look at that sight.
I still remember the dreams of that young woman, the restless energy to change the world and the constant urge to break free of chains.
Continuing "This day that age" journey, I stumbled on 14th July, 1985. (If the other things are all associated with good times and emotional stability, this one definitely brought the greatest loss of my life)
It was the midst of monsoon July, (14th July, to be precise)from morning, heavy rains battered the roads of Delhi. I normally cannot cry openly in front of others. My screaming, weeping and banging - all would happen inside me and I would look blank outside. But that moment after the 21 gun salute, when the body of my husband was lifted on to the carriage with the tricolour over him, I broke down and tears streamed down like the outside downpour.
I do not know why after all these years, the scene clamoured for my attention and time. I wanted to honour the memory and played it out in my mind with that deep sense of loss of my wonderful friend and companion. I consoled that young woman, hugged her and came back here.
