There's no time to complain when it rains

The ordinary Goan does not pay much attention to the weatherman's forecasts.

By Anthony F. D'Silva

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Published: Wed 17 Jul 2019, 8:00 PM

Last updated: Wed 17 Jul 2019, 10:45 PM

There is something magical, mystical and lyrical about the monsoon rains that beckon me to Goa at this time of the year. No matter where I am, my soul is transported to that charming land where nature breaks into poetry and song, creating a world of unparalleled beauty. (My apologies to Mumbai-ites, to whom this annual phenomenon brings mainly suffering, filth and even death, year after year).
Oh, the rains. Those fortunate enough to be raised in pastoral Goa (or Kerala, for that matter) regard the rains as a benediction sent by the Almighty to revitalise flora, fauna and humans. A period of scorching heat and numbing humidity in the preceding months of prolongs this panting. Traditionally, many Goan families stock their homes with supplies of salted fish, jars of para (marinated salted fish in vinegar and spices), prawn balchao, varieties of pickles and the famous Goan sausages, to tide over long periods of torrential rains when people have to go without their staple food - fresh fish.
The ordinary Goan does not pay much attention to the weatherman's forecasts. Most elderly people can sense the rains intuitively, through a combination of wind velocity, humidity levels, change in patterns of bird movements, colour of the sky and height of sea waves. The sturdy fishermen who comb the high seas in their fishing trawlers are perhaps the most reliable rain diviners. When they ground their boats on the shore, you can bet the monsoon is not far away.
The dramatic start of the monsoon rains, usually in the first week of June, is a moment to die for. If you have not experienced it, you have not lived. It is like enjoying a surreal symphony with the sky serving as the backdrop and the land as the stage.
To the novice, there are no tell-tale signs, except for the skies that adopt a brooding tone, with darkened clouds moving along. But old-timers can read the signs. The waves rise higher, and the seas take on an ominous hue of grey. On land, the wind picks up speed, the ubiquitous palm trees sway more lustily than usual, the bigger trees (tamarind, banyan, mango) shed leaves the sand and dust are swept all around.
A faint thunderclap emanates from beyond and a few minutes later, a muffled roar of thunder rises, as if rehearsing for a grand performance. Leaves, twigs, bits of paper and sand fly all around. Then a mighty burst of thunder rattles the land, accompanied by flashes of lightning. This usually goes on for a couple of minutes, and pious folks start reciting prayers, as the roar of thunder and flashes of lightning can get scary. In most parts, especially in rural Goa, electricity bows to the forces of nature, casting the land into darkness, as oil lamps and kerosene lamps appear from nowhere.
The fat droplets descend with full force, drumming raucously on the roof's tiles. Thunder and lightning get more persistent and impatient. Excited little kids rush outdoors to get drenched, an annual ritual that serves to drain the summer heat from their bodies. The monsoon miracle has begun.
For the next three months or so, Goa dons a cloak of green wetness. The paddy fields present endless vistas of emerald, as the ubiquitous palm trees sway reverently to the rhythm of the rain. Every plant, every living thing appears jubilant. It can rain for several days on end, but true Goans will never complain. The rain is their source of sustenance and joy in the miracle of nature.
Anthony F. D'Silva is a Dubai-based writer and PR consultant
 


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