Once the rains used to evoke a softness in me -- clear drops clinging to green leaves, coolness, heady smell of hot earth, giggling with friends on my way back home in squelchy wet shoes, hot tea with spicy snacks... But today in Bombay, as I fight my way through polluting traffic, thick crowds, overflowing garbage and crammed trains full of poking umbrellas, it evokes only frustration, anger and weariness. I avoid puddles as if they are nuclear waste. Well, they just might be. And let's not forget the endless lines of people squatting on railway tracks every morning. I sometimes catch them gossiping while they complete their morning chore. But I understood Bombayites were truly resilient when I caught them in the depth of the monsoon at their usual position, holding umbrellas as they nonchalantly went about their business. If only we channelled this never-say-die attitude to fight for a better life! After these few but inspiring scenes, I avoided water outside the four walls of my home like the plague. Then I learnt dirt does find its way inside the four walls via drinking water. That was a sad day in our household. But we coped like would-be Bombayites; we fought against the odds. Each family member tried to outdo the other by boiling water at higher and higher temperatures so that at times there was just enough to fill a half-litre bottle. Well, so be it. The quiet demeanour I had adopted in my youthful days has been cast away forever now. I have turned warlike, especially during the monsoon. I do the wild rain dance every day as I navigate myself on trains and platforms, leaping into passing autos that appear to be going my direction. Not to omit elbowing even old women, to whom in my heyday I would have respectfully given my seat. These are not the reactions of an upper middle-class woman, but just a human being who still has her sensory abilities intact. Most residents cope simply by holding their noses or looking ahead with unseeing eyes as loud Hindi music hypnotises them in snowy Swiss Alps and glittering discotheques. But I am still alive to it all! I can still see the overflowing garbage, people squatting on tracks, and children spitting, following the good example of their elders. My childhood, fortunately, in the then small town of Bangalore was completely different. As I jumped into puddles and played in the rain, I did not fear disease or illness. I was then a person who looked forward to the rains. I was lulled by it at nights without fear of being held prisoner by public transportation or the roads the next day. In Bombay, my psychology underwent a sea change. I feared the rains. Then I watched Lagaan and I remembered the real reason for rains. I remembered it means drinking water, good crops, food in our mouths and money in our pockets. Isn't it sad that the rains that give us everything, the rains that should be revered, are cursed in Bombay? It did not take me long to realise that it was not the rains that held us hostage, but the city -- a city that was built and is expanding with scant respect for the forces of nature. It is simple, really. We do not respect the rains. And so the rains do not respect us. Right now, after a week-plus of drenching, Radhika wouldn't mind some sun. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary
HOME | NEWS | CRICKET | MONEY | SPORTS | MOVIES | CHAT | BROADBAND | TRAVEL ASTROLOGY | NEWSLINKS | BOOK SHOP | MUSIC SHOP | GIFT SHOP | HOTEL BOOKINGS AIR/RAIL | WEDDING | ROMANCE | WEATHER | WOMEN | E-CARDS | SEARCH HOMEPAGES | FREE MESSENGER | FREE EMAIL | CONTESTS | FEEDBACK