The rains spell romance for some, remorse for others. Much like every other thing that is experienced differently by different souls, some doing it with passion, others having no choice but to succumb to its happening, the tales of rainy days too are such that aren’t universal in their appeal. For pluviophiles or for those who decipher all earthly joy in the earthy petrichor bliss that only the rains can dawn on them, the monsoons are a season that comes replete with reasons to rejoice. And indeed, as the first wash of rain reveals to all a new world of fresh beginnings, of shooting sprigs and tiny twigs, of greener foliage and radiant buds, of frolicking sparrows and dancing peacocks, there does seem to be little charm in anything else of such mundane mutterings that characterise life on earth. The rain has the world flourishing in happy abundance- a child is reborn somewhere as he sees sparkling drops of rain wash past window glass and roots for the smaller droplet to make it first, edging out the bigger one; romances rekindle in old classic homes where all it takes for hearts to flutter one more time is just a swish of rain making its cool presence felt by means of a peculiarly palpable warmth; families gather around the TV huddled in groups as steaming cups of chai and piping hot pakoras forge a bond truer than what those many weekends of hanging out at fancy restaurants never could; solitary souls finally get to live their most favorite time of the year as they seek comfort in a classic hot chocolate, made to custom preferences with sugar, spice and everything nice; kids go about splashing in puddles even as a kind of endearing dreariness takes over the day, dull and grey and insipid but still romantic enough to have belief reinstilled in the magic of life that never seems to die away till the rains make their pledge to stay.
Elsewhere though, in perhaps a parallel world of the not so privileged, where windows do not exist as transparent, peering opportunities but as coves of thatched bits that do not allow light but darkness into homes; where the first drizzle of the season sets off an ominous signal of the dawning of days and months of despair, of such magnitude that can possibly wipe away semblances of life itself; where the incessant downpours do not guarantee sessions of gupshup over chai because perhaps in households like these a steaming cup of tea is a luxury only adhered to in dire need; where all the rains do is further douse hopes of a family struggling every day to not bicker and blame; where the sole survivor in a not so crammed flat fears those days of darkness in their metaphorical relevance as well, the rains have never managed to hold enough of that romance of everything so fantastical yet so real to have souls falling in love with its poetic beauty. Even in the drab deluge of doom the rains continuously lead to, it is quite paradoxical that forever in literature, in art and the like, or such sources of which tends to cater to the more soulful whims of human life, monsoons have been perennially celebrated. But perhaps again, it is a drawing upon the dual nature of all other things that characterise life, as much as life itself, that the rains also rest in a similar crisis, not of what it is in its own identity but somewhat in the reticence of it, not so much in unleashing what lies at the core of its essence but how it reveals itself to be, in starkly contrasting measures to starkly diverse existences of the world.
But what the rains spell in physicality- beauty or gloom, and the similar facets it expands to in what it brings along into play in not so physical expressions of it are a diverse realisation as far as perception goes. In its being as a harbinger of fury, rains can be the deluge; in its appreciation as a beauty manifesting through nature, these spells of washing the world down can indeed bring to heart a dreamy realisation. But come to think of how rain can impact the wellness of the mind and those days devoid of the ‘eternal sunshine of the spotless mind’ can very well be haunting the alleys of your existence. And it isn’t just a dark measure of fleeting despondency that days of all rain and no sun can weigh you down with, those feels of depression you tend to feel every morn you wake up to no sun out on the horizon awaiting to greet you with wishes for a good day are more than mere a succumbing to the ravages of nature. It indeed is all that and much more- even with its prominence as a medium that can be setting off fits of romantic realisation, what rain harbours the potential of, in a measure even greater than what sees it drenching the world with its surreality, is something as alarming as having us experience what is no less than any existential crisis in itself.
As the days of the rain descend upon us, devoid indeed of the warm aura of hours of sunlit brilliance, it is as if we are cocooned into a shell as dark and ‘demonic’ as the ravages of what defines the weather outside at that point of time in nature. A certain uneasy feeling of withdrawal comes to wreak havoc on our understanding of life, that which is already obscure, taking on an even intense hazy awareness of such profound truths that go way beyond what we concern ourselves with, in days that are ordinarily extraordinary yet ‘normal’, all the same. So what it is about those moments of rain that reveals to us in such introspective realities of many of life’s musings that can even have us yearning, desperately even, to escape from such scapes of realism?
It is a fact well established that weather affects the reaches of our psychological in myriad, though subtle ways. Even then however, the way a rainy day touches upon our person, even when it is not an aberration, is still particularly unsettling. As a weird feeling of unbelonginess, if there’s a ‘thing’ like that, that is, weighs us down despite all efforts to not miss out the silver lining of the clouds, the rains present to us as a deluge- maybe not of the mud, slush laden existences of hopelessness but still terrifying- and tiring enough to leave us in a haze of inexplicable emotions. In a spirit dampened by the forces of what is only a natural passage of weather, there lurks a queasy awareness of something sinister, no not in the physical happenings of our world but rather in the psychic realms of it. As reality dissipates into an air of disillusioned existence, one that draws from the drab turn of the weather to have us grappling with as dreary manifestations of the mind, there arises a restlessness that begins to pervade into every inch of our being, again one that eats away into the inner confines of a soul struggling already to decipher its own amidst all the gloom, in bouts of exhausting exertion, leaving us empty from within- a hollowness so exact and so extracting that threatens to leave us numb in our senses, inciting therefore of us such reactions based on instinctive submission to the feel of the blues and the stuff that can easily have us while away our precious life, all in the ‘mere’ tides of the elements of nature. Isn’t it particularly unnerving then that even in all the tangible ravages afforded by the rain that do not affect us in seemingly distinct premises, we still are no any better off in the romance of its pitter- patter on the roofs of our homes? As the sleep inducing therapy of the rainy resonance transforms instead to threaten us with its ominous step over into the thresholds of the sanity of our mind, we perceive with terror the monster that prowls upon us, our existence left dangling at the end of a single emotion of veritable heaviness, awaiting in all its might to drag us down there, somewhere to a point from where there has never been any return.
What we intended to do was never for once to discount the romance that the rain indeed holds, even in all its fury and rage. After all, it isn’t for anything that the opening up of the heavens has been accorded so much graceful interpretations in such outflow of the artistic from human stemming that makes us want to believe very much in the magical shades with which the rain dresses up the canvas of nature in streaks of its brazen yet beautiful ‘outrage’. But imperative it is as well to dwell also in a world of the rainy day that can speak doomsday for some of us, in whatever sense of the term, maybe in the apparent, perhaps in the hidden. The crisis of the rains sure is real, even in allowing for the uses of euphemisms, the ways in which the season of rain floods the emotional range of our inner being are more than just destructing, they are debilitating, often to lengths that pertain to the wide reaches of even the dystopian, dwelling therefore in a distinction that seeks to override the very manner in which those vulnerable to it goes on with their lives, seemingly unaffected but hinging on the edges of a precarious reality, one that can only have them holding onto for dear life till the time the deluge unleashes its megalomaniac might to unsettle them once and for all.