Once upon a time, in the Sahyadris (Chapter 1/3 : Drizzle)
The
autumn leaves remind of time,
That
folds with wrinkles and some crease,
But
with these years come riches too -
For
what is life but memories…
I
read the papers – they say, the monsoons are on time, promising a healthy
Kharif harvest. Far away, in a land devoid of n’orwesters, my restless mind needs
but one fallen, ochre leaf to bring to life a verdant tree.
I
smile. On a less hectic, languorous Friday, working from home, there is time to
amble in the gardens of your mind. The best part about this garden is you can
pick and choose whatever you desire – no one stops you, time and space show no
boundaries. And there is no dearth of flowers. Or of weeds. There is breathing space
to smell the roses. And there is sunshine, both inside and out, to be dazzled
by the glow of the amaltas blooms.
I
wander in this garden, and find myself lost in the Sahyadris – amidst the wonders
of the Western Ghats, the pilgrimage of the pregnant clouds, and the magic of
the monsoons…
I
go back to the first chapter in this freshly curated omnibus called ‘Dervish
Days in Monsoon Mumbai.’ Yes, it always starts with Mumbai – an ugly,
cosmopolitan concrete maze that teaches restive souls to seek. How else will
you find? Silver trays make for poor explorers.
It
was the last month of summer, and the last week of my internship. An
internship, where I spent every other dusk on the Powai lakeside inside IIT,
just watching the ripples of the water, shimmering with sandstone colours of
the setting sun. (And occasionally waiting for the much talked about resident crocodile
to surface). I would find an uncanny resemblance with the waterbirds – the egrets
and herons standing still, motionless, staring at the waters rippling with a
breezy dusky wind, their minds emptied of either aspirations or apprehensions.
There were tantalising signs of the monsoons,
the marigold skies being slightly teased and challenged by the vanguard clouds.
With the anticipation of a paddy farmer – or an economist who predicted a 5
basis point increase in GDP thanks to a bountiful monsoon – I would rub my hands
in glee. The summer was outrageously hot, the rains were scarce the year
earlier, and the city’s tank storages were all plummeting rapidly. Yet, unlike other
summers, that year, I had one immersive internship. You see, I had immersed
myself in the natural bounties in the city – from cycling in the World’s
largest urban park – the Sanjay Gandhi National Park, to exploring Buddhist caves
hidden in the hillsides, to hiking on the ruddy hills of the country’s lowest
lying hill-station, Matheran - I had suddenly rediscovered the joys of reconnecting
with nature. And when you rekindle that dying ember, your source code gets
evidently reset. Man, after all, evolved as a wandering beast – his DNA was
configured to be a nomad in Nature. Once you get to that stage, you will find a
deeper and more profound sense of peace in the falling rains, the whistling winds
and the swaying trees.
Waiting
for the monsoons that year therefore, became more romantic - waiting without
expectations for the rains to arrive. There was joy in the wait itself in the
dusky sun. There was joy in being a heron. I would watch the tufts of clouds
and recollect a story I read in my childhood. Where the hero, Najab, crosses
the Rann of Kutch, smuggles his tobacco leaves, and later elopes with his love,
Fatima from across the border. When he returns to India, his mother wonders
what to make of his son’s actions. When it rains for the first time in years, breaking
the drought and giving much-needed signs to the questions asked.
Alas,
the rains never arrived until I left (Of course, I hadn’t eloped with Fatima!)
Yet,
I distinctively recollect my last evening. A parsimonious drizzle in late
evening as I was trundling back to my apartment to pack my bags. Nothing else -
no rains of redemption, no showers of salvation. Just a few minutes’ sprinkle
that whipped up a brief petrichor, and dried up faster than it drenched.
Perhaps,
it was a show just to keep the faith alive. Perhaps, it too was a sign – that it
was not yet time: that I had to wait to reap the harvest I desired. Perhaps it
was a tendril of time from the future, asking to return. For what would really
satiate me was no single evening of rain-washed freshness, but a season, many a
season of monsoon winds that would terraform the world in the surrounding Ghats.
And with them, the mind of a passer-by, a wanderer, a poet and raconteur whose
compendium of memories would be all too vacant without a rich chapter dedicated
to the Sahyadris…
(to be contd.)
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