Drenched in memories

Images: Google

Rains in Bangalore, what a relief from the parched, dusty brown streets, the lifeless trees and withering leaves. Some call it gloomy weather, some like to say overcast and humid - not a good sign, some others worried about the wet clothes, musty smell, slushy roads and freezing cold. I just loved it. The grey clouds and humid air told me of their secrets and conquests….secrets only some liked to hear. I did. I eagerly awaited the cool winds and the soft drizzles. I was even geared up for the mighty showers.

Rain. There is something about the very word that showers me with freshness and fulfilment. It washes away all the dust and grime, the cobwebs and grease from my being.  It fills me with excitement and wonder, happiness and cheer. Even before it actually came, there was torrential rain in my heart and soul.

I was getting ready for the pitter-patter on my windows. I would give it a grand welcome. Not like some others who shielded away the cool breeze and the lovely weather with unfriendly woollens and jackets. As I walked back from the market last evening, the clouds finally showered their blessings on the city. Soft, cool sprays of water on my face. It was heaven. I closed my eyelids and breathed in…the earthy scent that I so love, the dampness in the air, life-giving water…water everywhere.

Memories of monsoons in Kerala gushed in. The non-stop rains, the flooded roads, paper boats, the cat at the doorstep curled up on the mat, people hurrying home before the heavy rain, steaming hot coffee in a steel tumbler that Amma would bring along with spicy savouries and snacks- that I would enjoy while staring outside the window, the sound of crickets and frogs at night, the endless power cuts and candle light family dinners, the unfriendly mosquitoes that whistled away nonchalantly after a feasting on a sumptuous blood meal, water snakes and fish that appeared suddenly out of nowhere, slugs, flies, millipedes and what not? Temple visits with best of friends despite the downpour and flooded roads, our chappals spraying brown blotches of muddy water all over our clothes. I feel blessed to have experienced the monsoons in Kerala for a little over two decades.

Pulling my unwilling self back to the present, I stare out of the window up into the sky, trying to trace the origin of the drops of rain. May be I could catch a few spirited kids playing in the rain. May be I would see a few toads calling out, trying to find a worthy partner. May be. Failing in my attempt, and utterly bored, I go to the terrace and see the clothes getting wet. I dash towards the clothes line, tugging at the clothes in desperation, gathering them into a huge bundle. But they are already wet and cold. I curse the rain and go about doing my work. I make a cup of instant coffee for myself and gulp it down. With a slight pang of sorrow I realize they are not the same any more…the drizzles and the torrents.

Shades of Green

She heard voices far away. They were so familiar. Was it her mother? They became louder and louder. And louder until her ears ached. “Please stop it!” she begged. But the voices continued. What kind of a cruel joke was this? She felt tired and her body felt sore. She wanted some peace. She wanted to sleep, curled up inside her mother's womb. But these voices!

“Don’t speak or laugh loudly.”

“Don’t whistle.”

“Sit properly with your legs close to each other.”

“Wear loose clothes that don’t reveal the shape of your breasts.”

“Don’t mingle too much with boys.”

“We are expecting guests, go and wear your dupatta.”

“Don’t ask too many questions, just do as you are told.”

“Better learn to cook, sew and clean the house.”

These were just few of the strict instructions Meera had received from her mother and aunts through her growing years. From that day. Yes, the day she first saw that bright red streak of blood as she prepared to shower. Little did she know that it would change her life forever.

For a few days, perhaps even months she felt very special. She could join her older cousins Lavanya and Namita in gossiping and sharing  secrets. Earlier, they used to speak in hushed tones while Meera was around because she was just a kid. She even felt elated that some of the boys in class had begun to look at her differently. She enjoyed the attention secretly but never forgot her mother's words. “Wow! It really feels special to be a girl” she thought, as she browsed through her wardrobe unable to decide what to wear to the party that evening. She liked being her parents' little princess, she felt protected and vowed never to disobey them.

Her mother kept feeding her with lots of dos and don'ts. Why not? She was a girl, like a burning splinter, dangerously placed near fuel. The only solution was to douse the splinter. Sometimes Meera felt they were appropriate and at other times she would ask her mother to stop nagging her. She was a good girl, she would never do anything that would make her parents upset. So she was safe unlike those bad girls who wore short skirts, who had boyfriends, who conveniently forgot their dupattas at home, who roamed the streets after dusk and sat carelessly with legs apart. She took pride that she was growing up to become a well mannered and respectable young woman.

She woke up with a start. Her mouth was parched, her feet cold and her head felt heavy.  Then she heard other voices.

“Hey you! Beautiful.”

“This won't take much time.”

“Come on, don't do anything stupid. Or you will regret.”

Then after a long pause, “The bitch deserved it. Come on let's leave.”

 Her eyelids could no longer contain the outburst of sadness as her entire body wept. So did her spirit. She felt her mother's warm hands caress her tear stained cheeks. What went wrong? For a second, her gaze met her mother's. With utmost pain she realized that there was no answer. With a sigh she closed her eyes again hoping to slip into another world where she would truly be a princess.