(diving board: when it rains grey dominates the sky… green is prosperity… pink is romance.. together they make the colour of monsoon… the following post is a series of micro stories about ordinary people in close vicinity and their emotions)
Ashes of HER sun burnt layer turned into grey smoke and rose high in the sky. Infinite army of smoke particles simultaneously broke the individual shells to which they were confined and each one of them transformed itself into a giant, intimidating, ferocious, dark grey cloud. No sooner they had opened their eyes and looked around than their god-like emperor ordered them to march forward. As they obeyed him, their thunder steps cracked the sky. Their emperor has a deepest voice ever heard. He has the most powerful fists. He has the bravest chest. He has strongest legs. He has kindest eyes and a golden heart. Up here he is their god; down there he is a Superstar. His name - is Monsoon.
It was morning, sweaty, ten minutes past ten, June, Mumbai. The shaadi season was almost over. A noisy baraat crossed the otherwise quiet lane of Girgaum. The overenthusiastic baraatis were enjoying despite the scorching heat. Somewhere on that lane an old man was ironing trousers with a coal fired, medieval iron. He changed his radio channel to 93.5 RED FM. Chatterbox called Malishka was still blabbering on air, “Aur agar… hamarein ‘vedhshala’ ke anusar aaj paus nahi aala tar ‘vedhshaalechi’ tar kal sataaakk bajegi…!” The old man looked at the gulmohur tree. Standing on its own shadow, it was in flames. He looked at the trouser while something disappeared. The shadow was no more. Gulmohur’s foliage came swirling to him. It was about to hit him on his face but it stopped near his nose and danced to the radios tune. Malishka was playing Ghanana Ghan from Lagaan.
At the bazaar, where the lane opened, bhabhis stopped buying, bhaiyas stopped selling, kids stopped shouting, drivers stopped honking, idlers sitting in balcony stopped reading, barber stopped shaving, people stopped talking, people stopped walking, cars halted. They looked at the sky. It was partially grey. A bloody brilliant flash of light made a toddler cry. The grey army had conquered the blue land. Bazaar was standstill. It’s eyes followed the army’s march. The Superstar was marching with an air of a celeb. The tapori at the tapri whistled at him and people clapped. Then they dispersed to the nearest shed. Everyone was smiling because it was Monsoon.
The rain had just begun and the chawl, facing a big playground, on the other side of the gulmohur’s lane went powerless. In the first room of the ground floor, a kid crawled to the door and slowly opened it. Her mischievous eyes were watching her young mother who was readying roti dough. She quickly sneaked out with cutest smile and cautious steps. She was welcomed with hugs by her little friends. Her mother, realizing that she had left, ran after her. The mother stopped at the door and wiped her damp forehead with the back of her palm. Some wet dough stuck to her forehead. She was seeing herself in her own child. Her father was running after her. She was quicker than him. The 12x12 room on the ground floor was leaking with nostalgia… because it was Monsoon.
A group of four guys and three girls had bunked their classes to watch the latest horror flick. After the movie, they were having garama-garam pakodas at a big stall near the bazaar. She looked at him at the same moment when he looked at her. They were totally drenched. They stood in front of each other. He had his sleeves folded till his elbow. Her neck was relishing the foreplay with her wet hair. Her plate was not empty, but she took a pakoda from his plate… looked through his eyes and smiled. She removed a small piece of pakoda from his lower lip with her tender fingers. His insides churned and burned. The tapori, still at the stall, was getting entertained. He sipped the chai and said, “Lagta hai ho gaya!” His friend smiled.
Tapori was wrong. She was simply happy because it was Monsoon.
Two hundred and fifty kilometers away from that bazaar, a farmer had held his palm like a visor over his sweaty eyebrows. He was standing on dark brown wrinkles over the face of his brown barren land. Yes! He spotted it after two long years, he finally spotted it. “Oye!” he whooped. He went running inside his shabby hut which stood at the boundary of his land. He lifted one of his three kids playing with colored pebbles. The farmer couldn’t stop laughing and shouting. He put his younger son on his shoulder and danced with him holding his tiny hands. He touched the feet of his old mother. She was thin and pale, sitting in a corner, with thick glasses and no jaw. Hearing his cry, farmer’s attractively tan wife came running from outside. The lovely lady had the most radiant smile on her face since the birth of her younger son. She was watching her weak, unshaven, dancing husband from the entrance. She wanted to hug him but the presence of her nearly blind mother-in-law restrained her legs. Extravagant celebrations filled the depressing hut. Farmer saw his mother, his kids, his hut and then his eyes met with his wife’s. Hope floated on their face… because, it was Monsoon.
At the bazaar, it was dark and raining hard. An old hunchback beggar was standing in front of the pakoda stall, all wet. She owned nothing except her ragged clothes and ragged life. She was staring at the vadas and pakodas. The tapori’s friend stretched his arm outside the stall and handed her a vadapav. He had bought it from his cigarette allowance. She took it from him with a poker face. The vadapav was soaked in rain. She looked up and rewound time. It was the same rain that destroyed her life on one fateful day in July. It was four years back when she stayed alongside a seasonal river. She walked dementedly in rain because the same Superstar, only, ironically, could hide her tears comfortably. There was thunderbolt and it suddenly rained harder. He was regretting his mistake.
Looking at the heavy rains, a newlywed man decided to stay home and turned back. He passed the hunchback and entered a building just two blocks away from the stall. His beautiful wife opened the door and was pleasantly surprised. “Chai ho jaye?” He asked and ordered. Malishka was playing Aaj Mausam Bada Beiman from Loafer. The wife went to close the balcony door to prevent water from entering her flat. The sneaky tapori frowned. She then closed her kitchen window with same worry. Her husband changed into dry clothes and walked towards the kitchen. The wife put water in the vessel. He entered the kitchen. She put vessel on gas. He stood behind her. She lit the gas. The scent of her untied hair made his fingers tremble on her tight hips. Her eyes closed and lips opened to exhale the warm breath. She added sugar to the water with closed eyes. Before she could add tea, the spoon hit the floor and her gown slipped her right shoulder.
Ashes of HER sun burnt layer turned into grey smoke and rose high in the sky. Infinite army of smoke particles simultaneously broke the individual shells to which they were confined and each one of them transformed itself into a giant, intimidating, ferocious, dark grey cloud. No sooner they had opened their eyes and looked around than their god-like emperor ordered them to march forward. As they obeyed him, their thunder steps cracked the sky. Their emperor has a deepest voice ever heard. He has the most powerful fists. He has the bravest chest. He has strongest legs. He has kindest eyes and a golden heart. Up here he is their god; down there he is a Superstar. His name - is Monsoon.
It was morning, sweaty, ten minutes past ten, June, Mumbai. The shaadi season was almost over. A noisy baraat crossed the otherwise quiet lane of Girgaum. The overenthusiastic baraatis were enjoying despite the scorching heat. Somewhere on that lane an old man was ironing trousers with a coal fired, medieval iron. He changed his radio channel to 93.5 RED FM. Chatterbox called Malishka was still blabbering on air, “Aur agar… hamarein ‘vedhshala’ ke anusar aaj paus nahi aala tar ‘vedhshaalechi’ tar kal sataaakk bajegi…!” The old man looked at the gulmohur tree. Standing on its own shadow, it was in flames. He looked at the trouser while something disappeared. The shadow was no more. Gulmohur’s foliage came swirling to him. It was about to hit him on his face but it stopped near his nose and danced to the radios tune. Malishka was playing Ghanana Ghan from Lagaan.
At the bazaar, where the lane opened, bhabhis stopped buying, bhaiyas stopped selling, kids stopped shouting, drivers stopped honking, idlers sitting in balcony stopped reading, barber stopped shaving, people stopped talking, people stopped walking, cars halted. They looked at the sky. It was partially grey. A bloody brilliant flash of light made a toddler cry. The grey army had conquered the blue land. Bazaar was standstill. It’s eyes followed the army’s march. The Superstar was marching with an air of a celeb. The tapori at the tapri whistled at him and people clapped. Then they dispersed to the nearest shed. Everyone was smiling because it was Monsoon.
The rain had just begun and the chawl, facing a big playground, on the other side of the gulmohur’s lane went powerless. In the first room of the ground floor, a kid crawled to the door and slowly opened it. Her mischievous eyes were watching her young mother who was readying roti dough. She quickly sneaked out with cutest smile and cautious steps. She was welcomed with hugs by her little friends. Her mother, realizing that she had left, ran after her. The mother stopped at the door and wiped her damp forehead with the back of her palm. Some wet dough stuck to her forehead. She was seeing herself in her own child. Her father was running after her. She was quicker than him. The 12x12 room on the ground floor was leaking with nostalgia… because it was Monsoon.
A group of four guys and three girls had bunked their classes to watch the latest horror flick. After the movie, they were having garama-garam pakodas at a big stall near the bazaar. She looked at him at the same moment when he looked at her. They were totally drenched. They stood in front of each other. He had his sleeves folded till his elbow. Her neck was relishing the foreplay with her wet hair. Her plate was not empty, but she took a pakoda from his plate… looked through his eyes and smiled. She removed a small piece of pakoda from his lower lip with her tender fingers. His insides churned and burned. The tapori, still at the stall, was getting entertained. He sipped the chai and said, “Lagta hai ho gaya!” His friend smiled.
Tapori was wrong. She was simply happy because it was Monsoon.
Two hundred and fifty kilometers away from that bazaar, a farmer had held his palm like a visor over his sweaty eyebrows. He was standing on dark brown wrinkles over the face of his brown barren land. Yes! He spotted it after two long years, he finally spotted it. “Oye!” he whooped. He went running inside his shabby hut which stood at the boundary of his land. He lifted one of his three kids playing with colored pebbles. The farmer couldn’t stop laughing and shouting. He put his younger son on his shoulder and danced with him holding his tiny hands. He touched the feet of his old mother. She was thin and pale, sitting in a corner, with thick glasses and no jaw. Hearing his cry, farmer’s attractively tan wife came running from outside. The lovely lady had the most radiant smile on her face since the birth of her younger son. She was watching her weak, unshaven, dancing husband from the entrance. She wanted to hug him but the presence of her nearly blind mother-in-law restrained her legs. Extravagant celebrations filled the depressing hut. Farmer saw his mother, his kids, his hut and then his eyes met with his wife’s. Hope floated on their face… because, it was Monsoon.
At the bazaar, it was dark and raining hard. An old hunchback beggar was standing in front of the pakoda stall, all wet. She owned nothing except her ragged clothes and ragged life. She was staring at the vadas and pakodas. The tapori’s friend stretched his arm outside the stall and handed her a vadapav. He had bought it from his cigarette allowance. She took it from him with a poker face. The vadapav was soaked in rain. She looked up and rewound time. It was the same rain that destroyed her life on one fateful day in July. It was four years back when she stayed alongside a seasonal river. She walked dementedly in rain because the same Superstar, only, ironically, could hide her tears comfortably. There was thunderbolt and it suddenly rained harder. He was regretting his mistake.
Looking at the heavy rains, a newlywed man decided to stay home and turned back. He passed the hunchback and entered a building just two blocks away from the stall. His beautiful wife opened the door and was pleasantly surprised. “Chai ho jaye?” He asked and ordered. Malishka was playing Aaj Mausam Bada Beiman from Loafer. The wife went to close the balcony door to prevent water from entering her flat. The sneaky tapori frowned. She then closed her kitchen window with same worry. Her husband changed into dry clothes and walked towards the kitchen. The wife put water in the vessel. He entered the kitchen. She put vessel on gas. He stood behind her. She lit the gas. The scent of her untied hair made his fingers tremble on her tight hips. Her eyes closed and lips opened to exhale the warm breath. She added sugar to the water with closed eyes. Before she could add tea, the spoon hit the floor and her gown slipped her right shoulder.
Weather was bad. A band of friends found way through a dense forest to the foot a cruel looking mountain. It was pouring so heavily that it was impossible to look ahead. Covered in thick mist, the mountain was wearing a green fabric woven by the Mother. The demoralizing rock patches were shining like demon’s teeth. Violent white lights attacked the flat top of the mountain. Long, snaky white lines appeared on the green fabric, flowing all the way to the bottom. The friends remained quiet and unmoved. They held each other’s hands. No mountain was insurmountable. Incredible inspiration intoxicated their minds… because…
