A Rainy September Day

 

The night was surely tired as the pre-dawn hour slowly approached. So were the crickets after a licentious night-long song and revelry. Their throats had given up and they had fallen silent. A couple of katydids, however, still carried on with their periodic bleep-bleep, breep-breep sound with so much regularity that it could be easily taken as the bleary beeps of medical instruments by a patient’s bed in an ICU. ‘Probably a new love-couple that isn’t still tired of each other’s song,’ I thought.

Then the night decided to extend its stay as dark clouds marched in, bounteously aided by the streams of swift winds. ‘We will help you in hijacking the day,’ they said with rumbling, lightning mischief. The day’s march was stopped at a sultry, wet, gloomy dawn. The sun seemed on a holiday on this Saturday.

The sky surely had rainy diarrhoea on this day, September 11 to be precise. It started raining at five in the morning and the day would remain stopped at its early morning grey till noon. The katydids lost their song, preferring to save their lives for the day and make love some other day, if they survived. A few rockchats, who like to gossip heartily while others are asleep in the pre-dawn darkness on normal days in the neem tree nearby, kept their tongues well in check and huddled among the branches.

We are no longer used to heavy rains. Monsoon has lost its sheen over the years in the north Indian plains. But climate has ruffled feathers, thanks to global warming, and we can expect drought or flood with equal probability anywhere in the world. So dear readers, it started raining cats and dogs. The clouds rumbled, lightning flashed and the wind blew. A kind of cyclonic, stormy rain it was.

It hummed and drummed among the tree canopies and gave muffled drumming sounds like a massive umbrella was under the watery onslaught. After half an hour, there was a brief pause that lasted for a couple of minutes. A tailorbird let out its accusative tittering, probably angry at the skies for spoiling its breakfasting hip-hops among the bushes. The clouds punched back with an angry growl and a full throttle cloud burst followed. Definitely the tiny bird must have peed out of fear.

It rained on and on till noontime. I even got worried about a watery deluge. It was just one watery fountain. The kittens ran in, scared to their wits, their tails and hair up. They must have thought someone was trying to kill them with watery hits from above. A cat simply hates getting wet. It has to give its tongue a lot of effort to make itself presentable again. The kittens ran in so speedily and went into hiding among the things put in the veranda that they would have beaten even a snake in its slithery sneaking into a hole. I hardly had any clue where they went.

You have to bow down to rain. It carries its unique majesty with easy pride. Our admance might turn it prejudiced and then we are up for it. The trees stand in mute servitude as long as it’s raining. A peacock did the same. It sat on the terrace wall and hid itself among the overhanging branches to avoid direct hits by the rainy catapults. It looked funny because it was shedding its plume. Only two long feathers were left apart from some shorter ones. There it sat for a sunny day and full plume when it would again be able to woo the ladies with the fantastic display of colours of its jingling tail-fan. And the rain went on drumming.

We are no longer used to big-time rains. Looking at the stormy roof drainpipes we become worried of some mishap. The houses leak, the snakes creep out of their flooded holes. Earthworms give the best of their sprints and move towards higher ground apprehending the mythical flood. I nearly killed one with my slipper, mistaking it for a baby snake because it was almost sprinting in panic. I had to give many a careful look to confirm its status because it had some serious urgency and purpose in movement. The mice and rats also jump from the sinking ship of their bushes and sneak in like the kittens do. The errant and foolishly gallant monkeys also get thoroughly bashed up by the rains. They look so funny when they sit all soaked up and have to settle for good behaviour and consideration for others.

Hundreds of baby frogs romp around the yard in gay abundance. They come hopping into the veranda like jubilant children after the school. There they hop around to go still farther from the rain, that’s into the rooms. A lot many manage to occupy the rooms in fact. They are almost domesticated frogs. You cannot afford to have an unkempt courtyard and its charm to yourself only. You have to share it with many of the gardening and wilderness ilk. I have to be careful not to step over baby frogs.

I remember this frog feller who had made a comfortable home in the kitchen. That was before the rains started, when there weren’t many frogs. It stayed indoors, hiding behind baskets. It would hop out and have a tea-time snack of flies while I had tea. It really considered the kitchen of its own. One day it was on an outing and found the door closed. It knew what it was up for. I found it hanging by the wire mesh of the door frame, peeping in with a surly look. I had to allow it in. After that it behaved well and got back well before the closing time. A nice frog it was. Then the rains arrived and it too came of age. A young frog has to woo its lady. It went out in all excitement and never returned. Probably a lot many of these baby frogs are fathered by him only. His children occupy the house now. 

A stray dog howled in the street. Probably its patience was wearing thin very rapidly. So it howled its imprecations. The rain meanwhile looked set to improve its all time statistics for the month of September in the region.

Around noontime, the sky thought we earthlings had enough of bathing, so it relented. The show of life that had been overtaken by the rain slowly crept out to take a look at the wet slippery stage. One kitten came out and I saw it going towards the flowerbed to relieve itself. It gladdened me that it behaved well and held the urge till the rain stopped and didn’t mess up the place it was hiding in. A monkey staggered out of the neem branches and sat on the balcony fence of a neighbouring house. It raised my spirits to see the foe so thoroughly soaked and well beaten. It will take an entire day for it to reclaim its foolish spirits, I reckoned. The birds arrived with their usual song, delayed though today. The peacock too shook its royal blue coat to expel the extra load. It looked surly and walked around the yard. The kittens looked at it with suspicion and fear from a distance. The peacock shed even the couple of last long plumes in its feathery gear to look less funny now because now it had a few shorter ones only. A peacock feather is a treasure. I ran to collect them and put them in my room for faith and aesthetics.

The peacock must have felt bored because it invented a play to divert its attention. It went in front of the black glossy rain-washed tiles—shiny enough to give a reflection of the onlooker—by the side of the inner gate and used it as a mirror. The Romeo started kissing at the strange she-peacock in the reflection. It must have been giving it a lot of pleasure, for it gave continuous rapping pecks at the lovely lady who reciprocated in equal measure. The requited dose of love and kisses uplifted the peacock’s spirits and it gave an effort and lifted itself to the garden fence, before launching itself onto a larger tree outside the boundary. A peacock is too big for its wings. It’s primarily for colours, not flying. 

In the afternoon, I went out into the garden to check out the rain-mauled plants and flowers. The plants were thoroughly beaten but already there were signs of resilience. The branches were getting their business back on track. They have no business to complain against the rain. They exist only because there is rain. A potted geranium is sloshed with water. Its vase is still full of water. I get down to help the plant and a serious attempt is made at my life. The fighter scouts of the stinging hornets tried their weaponry at my head. Thank god I had overgrown my hair to make it look like the unkempt yard. Had I been ganja they would have gathered their prey very easily. There was severe, angry buzzing. I now found that my head was almost touching their new-fangled nest even though I was stooping to tend the plant. The rains had brought down the branch bearing the nest. It needed to be removed. Either they fly or I stop walking in the yard because that was right in the middle of the way. I am selfish enough to retain my unrestricted rights to roam around my courtyard. Here I declare war on the stinging hornets. I drape myself in a big chador like a Muslim lady in a hijab and wear my bike helmet on top of it. Then I pick up a long bamboo and walk out like a brave Knight to the battle field. The battle is quickly over and I win handsomely. The branch is broken in one clean strike. The enemy citadel falls. They are also reasonably angry and attack my helmet. I chuckle like a wicked witch from behind the helmet screen. They get their teeth broken also in the attempt.

As I came in triumphantly, the kittens but found me as an apparition. There they went hurtling over the garden fence, one of them even falling and rolling for a good few yards in panic. Only at night they could dare to peep over the fence because the memory and aroma of the cow milk beats all fears. But even while drinking the milk they took pauses and straightened their ears to look around for the ghost that had entered the house.