It was depressingly grey all day today, in Hyderabad, with a persistent rain that fell on and off with varying degrees of intensity throughout the daylight hours. At first I was joyful, almost jubilant, donning my long lost cardigan that I had left behind on my first stop to my new home. It reminded me of back in the UK, where it would be grey for days at a time. I was filled with a nostalgia that made me smile with longing of fresher climes. But then, something changed, probably when I had to actually go out and brave the weather.
We were on our way to look at some furniture for my father-in-law’s newly built house. That’s normally an activity that I would love; potentially spending large amounts of money on large, pretty but functional objects. But the wind and the rain just got to me. The traffic was tragic and we didn’t buy anything! Maybe that was the root cause of my melancholy; it was a wasted afternoon!
But it made me think of the UK and how I loved the idea of just escaping all that glum ‘greydom’ and exchanging my winter wear for the weather that suited my clothes in my ideal summer. We did leave in December so the weather was pretty dire and daylight seemed to be at a premium, only adding to the urgency of escape.
But it also made me think of the rain in Calcutta.
That is to say, the rain in Calcutta is the stuff of Bollywood Dreams. It falls with purpose and riot. It’s heralded by the wind, who howls and yelps in warning and celebration. The clouds turn broody and dark and thunder roars and rumbles making the earth tremble in anticipation of the coming tumult. And when it comes, there is a release! The earth becomes fresher, women rush out of their homes and dance as the raindrops caress their form. They become heavenly beings, at one with the water, the earth and the air and for those few minutes, Calcutta is a paradise, where everything is turned to mercury and emeralds and rubies and gold.
But just as quickly as it comes, it is gone.
The earth, like Lord Kishna’s Radha, relives her time with her beloved and basks in the afterglow for as long as the memory can satisfy, but that too fades, replaced by longing once again. The land becomes parched, the air becomes oppressive and a dank stillness hangs in the air.
Has it happened then? Have I said that I prefer the rain in Calcutta to anywhere else? I suppose I must have.
They say Calcutta grows on you, it seeps into your bloodstream without you even realising it. I think it has and like the earth, longing for the rain, I’m longing to get back; back to my routine, back to my friends, back to my home and back to the rain that falls with purpose and with riot.