The monsoon havoc
K S S Pillai
Kerala, my home state, is known as ‘God’s Own Country’. Maybe that is why He tests the people of that state when He is in a ‘mischievous’ mood.
While monsoon has withdrawn from most parts of the country, and people are getting out their blankets and woollen garments in preparation for the ensuing winter, it is causing large-scale loss of life and property in many parts of Kerala. Alerts of different colours are being issued daily across the state for the expected heavy rains, and those residing near rivers, dams and mountains are spending sleepless nights. Many have lost their dwellings and near ones in landslides and floods.
It is said that it always pours when it rains in Kerala. The state gets two rainy seasons — one called the Southwest monsoon or Edavappathi from June to August, and the other, the Northeast monsoon called Thulavarsham in October and November.
The first one coincides with the opening of schools, and children usually get wet in the rains on the first day itself. Though the rainy season is supposed to start in June, pre-monsoon showers, accompanied by lightning and thunder, start in April.
Though I like rains, I am happy that I am staying in another part of the country, where the rains are not so heavy as to threaten life and property. The onset of monsoon in Mumbai around June 10 gives us the warning that we could expect it in a few days, bringing respite from the summer heat.
The news of the current monsoon havoc took me to my childhood. The holy river Pamba is the northern boundary of my village. It took only a short walk from my home to reach the shallow stretch nearby. The river was gentle and placid most of the year. As houses rarely had bathrooms, the villagers would take bath in the river in the morning and evening.
We would swim a couple of times across the river to the ghat near the church on the other bank before winding up our bath. School-going children would visit the temple after their bath, pray there, and smear their forehead with sandalwood paste before going to school. Women would usually go to the river in the afternoon to bathe, wash clothes, and exchange gossip.
Once the season set in, it would rain continuously for several days. Strong winds would blow away umbrellas from the hands of the unwary, and occasionally one could see a tree burning after lightning struck it. In a few days, the river would swell with fresh muddy water from the eastern mountains from where it originated. When it gathered momentum, children would stop swimming to the other side.
With the fresh water would come more fish from upstream. Fishermen would have a bumper catch. The continuous rain would bring down the temperature, and the cold water of the river would add to the misery of the fishermen. They would visit the toddy shop near the bank now and then and keep their body temperature steady.
Since there was no bridge across the river, people would cross it in small country boats by paying a small fare. When the river donned a ferocious mantle, the aged ferrymen and women would stop their service, leaving it to some daredevils who would charge extra fare.
Some people used to keep a casting net to fish in the fresh water. They would go to the riverbank, throw the net into the water in a scooping motion, making it spread out while it was in the air before it sank into the water. They would get a handsome catch when the net was hauled back. They would keep most of it for their use and sell the rest.
There would be large whirlpools, drawing small objects underneath, reminding us of frightening stories of large vessels being sucked into maelstroms along with passengers. That would force us to remain close to the bank while taking a quick bath.
(The author is a retired professor of English. A regular contributor to ‘The Kashmir Vision’, his articles and short stories have appeared in several national and international publications)
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