by Shruthi Rao
A sudden gust of wind through the open window scattered the pages of the newspaper all over the room. A door banged somewhere and a loose window rattled.
“It’s going to rain heavily,” Amma said, shutting her laptop and peering up at the dark sky through the window. The pleasure in her voice was tinged with unease. Papa had taken the bike to work that day.
She went from room to room, pulling the windows shut. Little Vinu and I ran to the backyard to bring the washing in. We tugged at the clothes, giggling as we fell over each other in an effort to get the fresh-smelling clothes to safety. We dumped the clothes on our parents’ bed in a heap.
Petrichor assailed our nostrils just as the first fat drops of water fell upon the parched earth. The leaves of the jasmine plant bobbed as the raindrops fell upon them. Some of the white flowers fell to the ground, their whiteness standing out against the grass. The tall coconut trees swayed gracefully, and thunder rumbled. In just a few moments, the skies opened up, and thick sheets of rain pummelled the ground, and the white jasmine flowers slowly turned brown as they floated away with little muddy rivulets that took over the garden. After a while, the storm settled into a steady pitter-patter, which lulled me into a pleasant stupor.
But a heavy shower is never really fun unless all your loved ones are home and dry.
“Rain, rain, go away/ Come again another day,” sang Vinu, almost as if our mother’s anxiety had rubbed off on her.
Grandpa looked up from his book with a frown. “Sacrilege!” he muttered. “The rivers are dry, and the crops are failing. Our country needs this rain. And today’s children mindlessly repeat rhymes that are relevant only in the country of their origin.”
Chastised, we immediately sang a more appropriate Kannada ditty – Huyyo huyyo maleraya/ Hoovina totake neerilla. Pour, pour, O Rainman, the garden is thirsty. Hoping Grandpa was mollified, we slunk away to find Amma.
She was on the phone, trying to call Papa. “Not answering,” she told us.
But Vinu didn’t care if Papa answered the phone or not. “Amma, pakoda, please!” she whined, tugging at the end of Amma’s sleeve. Amma’s brow cleared and she laughed, pointing towards the kitchen. There was a pan of oil on the stove already. It took Amma just five minutes to chop up some onions, toss them into a spiced batter of gram flour, and drop the mixture bit by bit into the boiling oil.
Just as the first batch of pakodas sizzled in the oil, the gate clanged open and Papa’s bike juddered to a halt. Vinu threw open the door. Papa was drenched, but cheerful, and he wiggled his eyebrows as the promising aroma of the frying pakodas reached him. By the time he changed, the snack was ready, and so was the tea.
We sat at the table, attempting to make conversation over the roar of the thundershowers. After a while, we gave up and just watched the rain through the window, eating the delicious pakodas and sipping hot ginger tea.
We were too stuffed to have dinner. But for once, Amma did not mind. After all, the first monsoon shower is not an ordinary occasion.
Picture from https://www.flickr.com/photos/31878512@N06/
Just a slice of ordinary life, so deliciously narrated with gorgeous detailing. Warms the heart like comfort food.