Monsoon Musings
Passing thoughts on a rainy day.
For most of my life, I haven’t given the monsoon season much thought. Growing up in Delhi, the scorching heat of summer and the biting cold of winter were the only two seasons that demanded attention. Everything in between was just… a filler.
It wasn’t until both seasons started touching extreme temperatures that my attention shifted to the shoulder periods that once seemed irrelevant. I began to eagerly await the arrival of spring, when the city bloomed with flowers and the pleasant weather felt like a sigh of relief. The monsoon was still fleeting, marked by brief showers that left the city’s roads water-logged and the weather humid.
It’s only when I moved to Goa last year that I began recognizing the monsoon––more specifically, the Goan monsoon––as a significant part of the year. It was here that I discovered what it means to live through a monsoon, and even be dictated by it.
Last June, it rained nonstop for days on end, and often with so much force that it felt like the clouds were letting go off some major weight. I could barely hear anyone on the phone, as the sound of the rain on my tin roof overpowered everything else. Amidst it all, a part of my house was struck by lightning, damaging several appliances, the electricity board, and the water meter. I watched as age-old trees and brick walls succumbed to strong winds in seconds. And I was caught off-guard several times when the sound of thunder shook the windows (and me). The greenery around was mesmerizing, and a feeling of unbridled growth and abundance filled the air.
This year, the monsoon has been far gentler. It rains daily––sometimes a soft drizzle, other times a heavy downpour, but nothing too dramatic. Driving around the countryside is a pleasure, and I can’t help noticing how saturated, bright, and clean everything looks!
While it’s easy to romanticize the visual grandeur of the season, I’ve realized there’s so much more to it. Some days feel gloomy and heavy. The sun has barely come out and I haven’t felt its warmth on my skin in days. My clothes are damp and somehow this impacts my mood too. Mold grows on every natural surface and no amount of Absorbia cuts it. There are few social interactions and solitude sometimes borders on loneliness.
Monsoon is no longer a passing season that I observe from a distance. It demands my attention, respect, and patience. It invites me to let go of what no longer serves me. Pent up emotions. Expectations. Rigidity. A sense of control.
The weather is unpredictable––the storms come and go at their own will. They teach me to surrender to the forces of nature. To embrace both the abundance of rain and the stillness in-between. To rest and reconnect––with nature, but also myself.
I drink my tea… slowly. I watch butterflies and caterpillars. I take in the freshness of the rain. I think about where I am and where I want to be. The ordinariness of these days––uneventful yet full of life––remind me to slow down. To be grateful for what I have.
This past weekend, I decided to step out of the house despite the rain. The slippery moss-filled driveway didn’t stop me from putting on my raincoat and driving an hour and a half to Cabo de Rama fort. I had heard about it as a perfect sunset spot, but it was equally delightful in the rain. The feeling of not caring about getting wet––something I loved to do in school––brought back the simple joy of connecting with nature through sensation. Walking down the steep steps to the pebble beach below, and later from wall to wall of the broken ramparts of the fort was exciting. The arched coconut trees with cloudy, grey skies as backdrop looked like a movie still, and the high tide on the beach reminded me how beautiful the sea is, even when it’s rough.
The days pass by. Time feels slow outside my window and fast when I return to my laptop screen. Between my digital world (dominated by remote work, news, and pressures of modern life) and my physical world (moving to the rhythms of the natural world)––I feel caught. Grateful for being surrounded by trees and all shades of green for as far as my eyes can see. This has been a lifelong dream and I am finally living it. At the same time, I wonder if the few hours in the day spent off my screen truly constitute ‘living my dream.’ Did I pause enough to listen to the birds and insects today? Did I spend enough time in the orchard amongst the trees? Did I notice my plants grow a few centimeters taller?
Some days the answer is yes, but most days it is no. I’m in a better place than I was before, but I have a long way to go.
The only way to get there seems to be by sitting still.
I have said this before (many times!) but your writing has this ability to slow down time. It is a rare and wonderful quality. Beautiful, immersive essay.
loved it! Goa is indeed best in monsoons.