sweat, strawberries, & seasons

Earlier this week, for the first time since moving to Bandra, I was woken mid-dream by what sounded like the goddess of the sky swinging her arm up and down on a trampoline-sized drum.

KABOOOOOM!!!

Then another swing - BABOOOOM!!!

An intense release of pent up pressure; I almost imagined Kintsugi-style cracks in the sky, drawn with a pen on its thickest setting.

Back in early May, someone whose qualifications I didn’t question told me the rains would start exactly on the 7th of June. Maybe the rest of the city had also consulted her, because over the last 3 weeks, almost every conversation in Bombay has felt incomplete without: “it’s so hot, when will the rains come?” Whether with my Nani, her househelp, or even the coffee shop attendant.

At first, it was just too hot for too long. Day after day of 34+ degree heat, topped with intense humidity that melted my sunscreen off before I even stepped outside.

Then came the mandatory water cuts. Handwritten ‘sorry no water’ signs on sheets of thin white paper taped to the doors of cafe bathrooms, swimming pools closed just when needed the most, taps dripping like filter coffee makers.

The city was not prepared to not have rain for so long.

And neither was I.

I had moments when I strongly wondered whether I should cut short what I hoped would be at least a one year stint in Bombay.

And then, the morning after I had booked a trip to escape… she arrived.

All at once, without hesitation.

It was my first time experiencing the ‘start of the monsoons,’ and while I had been dying for a break from the heat, I hadn’t actually thought about what living through the infamous rainy season might mean.

My mind raced. I only had one set of sheets; would they dry in time for me to make my bed the same day as doing my laundry? Would my birkenstocks survive in the puddles, or would I need to buy new shoes to walk around in? Hadn’t I just figured out how to live here; would this change everything?

I looked out my window at the downpour - torrential, unforgiving, yet, eerily peaceful. Each rain drop connected to the one before so they looked less like drops of water and more like a beaded curtain, each bead being cut from its thread as it hit the window, one after another.

I smiled to myself and pictured a scene from Lagaan - everyone running into the streets in colourful dresses - dancing and singing in celebration. Finally catching their breath.

How is it that you can be waiting for something for so long and still be surprised when it arrives?

In London, with the exception of summertime, I remember daily conversations about the weather feeling a bit more small talk-y, a little more complain-y without purpose. When it did rain, it was largely about how miserable it was. How annoying it was to manage. Expats often questioning their life choices, wondering how the greyness affected their moods so much.

But here, life feels much more intertwined with the seasons. And even I feel more connected to the earth as a result.

It’s not just that the air and earth smell fresh and musky, it’s also that I seem to stop and notice.

Everything is suddenly greener and more lush. The trees and plants look as though they’d been thirsty for too long, and have finally put on a Korean sheet mask.

That Monday, I was on a call with a friend when I looked out the window, and saw my favourite birds - cute light green parakeets with bright red beaks - hanging fully upside down from the electrical wires outside! I had to interrupt him mid-story to savour the moment; pictures were doing the sight no justice. I later found out hanging upside down makes it easier for birds to ‘bathe’ and clean underneath their feathers.

When I first started spending my days writing from cafés in February, I began noticing ‘strawberry edit’ menus everywhere. I asked Stephen, my now usual waiter at Vanilla Miel, how much longer my favourite spiced strawberry whipped tofu open sandwich might be around.

“Tough to say, as long as we still have strawberries.. Maybe one or two more weeks?” He smiled.

My great aunt, my cook, friends returning from Mahabaleshwar - everyone seemed to come back carrying punnets of strawberries to share.

I know about mango season in a technical sense because my Nani and Nana used to freeze bags and bags of aam ras every year for their grandkids to enjoy. What I hadn’t appreciated until living here was that the whole city celebrates ‘mango season’ almost as fervently as shaadi season. Creative ‘mango experimental’ menus appeared everywhere: mango jalapeño avocado toast, mango prawn salad, even mango french toast.

What I love most is that these aren’t artificial ‘limited edition’ menus. Sure, they’re slightly gimmick-y, but they’re also just following the natural order of things. And no one seems to be trying to disrupt that by attempting to make things ‘always available.’

There’s a sense of anticipation, an appreciation, even a respect in observing nature. Definitely still impatience and complaining, but underneath, there’s more of an acceptance - a willingness to live with the rhythm of life rather than fighting it.

Even now, it’s been 5 days since the drumming incident, and it’s back to being uncomfortably hot and sticky.

My cook came this morning and said, “where are the rains?”

We both shrugged.

I recently learned that monsoon comes from the Arabic word mausam, which means season.

Since unintentionally embarking on this non-linear, post-corporate journey, I’ve found myself returning to that idea a lot lately to describe life. Not chapters - whose finite beginnings and endings are determined by the author herself.

Seasons.

A little beyond our control, ultimately governed by the laws of nature.

One of those laws is that the next one always comes. Even if it’s later than expected, and even if it makes you sweat in more ways than one until its arrival. The next one always comes.