Monsoon in myriad moods, from magical to mayhem
Who doesn’t love the monsoon, the most romantic of all the seasons? It evokes a treasure of varied emotions, as the overcast sky, pitterpatter of the falling raindrops, the intoxication of the first petrichor, the heavy misty air, and the freshly bathed nature in its verdant splendour fill the heart with ecstasy. It’s time to go out and get drenched or sit on the veranda and enjoy ‘chai-pakora’ with the family. Oh, how it brings one to hum all the rain-related love songs!
But there is another side to the monsoon, a murkier, deadlier, and troublesome one, when it brings death and disaster in its trail, with streets getting clogged, roofs leaking, rivers rising above danger levels, and people running around saving their lives and salvaging whatever material possessions they can. Many a time, it’s not just the rainfall, but also the release of water from overflowing rivers that wreaks havoc by inundating low-lying areas.
On July 10, 1993, flash floods took Patiala residents by surprise. Living in a single-storeyed house on the Punjabi University campus, we were too shocked to take any measures to save anything except for some documents and cash. With about three feet of water inside, we, and other residents, had to take shelter in the three-storeyed flats across the road. I remember my husband carrying our young sons on his shoulders, one by one, and wading through waist-deep water to reach the other side. In just one night, the city experienced widespread destruction, and sadly, many people lost their lives.
Cut to July 10, 2023, exactly 30 years later, Patiala once again experienced flash floods. Sounds like a Nostradamus prophecy, doesn’t it? This time, with only two of us oldies at home, we spent two nights on the first floor with our kind-hearted neighbours, with minimum amenities, no electricity, no water, and the damages incurred are beyond description.
Scared of the 10th of July because of the potential danger attached to it, I was apprehensive about the day this year. Keeping my fingers crossed, I waited for the day to pass off peacefully. As our son and his family were visiting us from the US, we discussed how to handle things in case of an emergency, but their bags and their daughter’s things scattered all around made me anxious at the thought of a crisis. Thankfully, they left safely on the 11th, and I could heave a sigh of relief as all was well, though for us, the danger persists.
For me, the monsoon has lost some of its sheen. No pitter-patter, no petrichor, no ecstasy of the drizzle falling on the face, only a watch on the water level rise in the street and the lawn.
There was a time when humming songs like, ‘O sajna, barkha bahar aayi’ would send me into a romantic frenzy, but now, it’s neither the ‘sajna’, nor ‘bahar’, but only ‘barkha’, and that too in its fast-and-furious avatar, that keeps scaring me all the time. And when it comes to thinking of some Bollywood songs, the only lyrics that keep thumping in my head are – ‘Kaali ghataa chhaye, mora jiya ghabraye.’
FOR ME, THE MONSOON HAS LOST SOME OF ITS SHEEN. NO PITTER-PATTER, NO PETRICHOR, NO ECSTASY OF THE DRIZZLE FALLING ON THE FACE, ONLY A WATCH ON THE WATER LEVEL RISE IN THE STREET AND THE LAWN