When it rains cats and dogs
K S S Pillai
As dark clouds hurry across the sky at the end of May, changing their shapes frequently, several cloud-related images flash through my mind. Tansen, the prominent musician in the court of Emperor Akbar, bringing down the rains by singing Raga Megh Malhar. Gandharvas sitting on clouds or floating in the skies with the breeze. A yaksha, banished by his master to a remote region, asking a cloud to carry a message to his wife. Lovelorn peacocks dancing with abandon to attract a mate. Hornbills, condemned to a relentless thirst, finding respite at the sight of clouds, holding their heads to the skies for the first drop of rain to fall and to roll down their throats.
Darkness caused by the disappearance of stars and the moon behind the clouds and occasional lightning and peals of thunder convince me the rains are not far off. The night reverberates with sounds made by insects, and frogs make their throaty calls to their mates.
When I hear about many parts of Mumbai getting inundated after the first rains causing a complete breakdown of life, and people even getting killed by falling into man-holes and the collapse of buildings, I remember my childhood in Kerala during the rainy season.
Interestingly, schools in Kerala begin the academic year around June 1 or 2, the middle of Malayalam month Edavam. The summer rainy season is also called Edavappathy, literally meaning the middle of Edavam. As children get ready for school, they are greeted by lightning and peals of thunder, accompanied by rains.
Shops selling raincoats and water-proof shoes had not yet appeared when I joined my primary school. There were no mandatory uniforms. Children could go to their school wearing any dress they had. Even umbrellas were rare. Many of us would use banana leaves for protection against rains.
The monsoon season in Kerala seems to be different from that in other parts of the country. As the adage says, it never rains but pours there. Heavy rains would continue for days together. Streams of water would cascade down the tiles on the roof of our house. There won’t be any respite even for changing damaged tiles on the roof. Deep wells that had gone almost dry would start filling to such a level that one would be able to draw water with hand-held buckets.
Those who ventured out during the rains had to be careful that their umbrellas were not snatched away by the fierce wind, making them run after them in the heavy downpour. Children would float paper-boats on puddles of water, sometimes with panicky black ants as passengers.
Lightning would sometimes set even standing trees on fire. As newspapers reported rain-related deaths every day, parents advised their children not to take shelter under trees when there was lightning. People had to be cautious at night as poisonous snakes, their burrows filled with water, would come out in search of refuge.
The nearby Pamba river, which is usually placid, would suddenly swell with rainwater and don a ferocious mantle. The fast-flowing muddy water would carry anything from branches of trees to parts of huts, with animals like cats and dogs clinging to them at times. The few daredevil boatmen would have a tough time rowing their country-boats, ferrying passengers on urgent business.
The usually dry canal that connects the Pamba river with the Achankovil river to the south would fill up fast, regaining its past glory, and flooding the paddy fields on both sides.
Freshwater brought lots of fish with it, and fishermen would get a bumper harvest. Amateurs with cast nets would also take advantage of the situation and get a good catch. Teashops would do brisk business, handing out hot glasses of tea, mostly without milk, and freshly made vadas to the customers, who would make the best use of the waiting period by going through the day’s newspaper and discussing issues of public interest.
(The author is a retired professor of English. A regular contributor to The Kashmir Vision, his articles and short stories have appeared in various national and international publications)
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