# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/How the rains come upon us in India

HOW THE RAINS COME UPON US IN INDIA.
Hotter, hotter, hotter still! till everything is burnt and parched and scorched, and every pond is dried up, and the great Ganges is little more, in some places, than a moderate sluggish stream, and the wide plains have nothing green about them, covered only with drifting beds of sand and dust; man and beast sunk into languor and sickness, as though a plague were upon them; hardly a sound in camp or city at mid-day, when all are gasping in their tents and houses; while the hot wind tears in fiery blasts over us—great gusts of heat against which few constitutions can bear up, and before which many go down, while the rest heave to and weather them as best they may; the dazzling, glowing atmosphere glitters like a thin Scotch mist of diamond dust, except when darkened now and again by the dense clouds of heated sand which are borne along; and the ground sparkles back impatiently, but feebly, the sun’s rays, as if it were weary of them.
Hotter, hotter still! When will the rains come? It is time they were here—time that those dark banks of clouds, which for days have been rolling portentously over head, discharged their burdens, and that the masses of vapour which hang so tantalisingly above us streamed down to quench this deadly drought and cool this heavy heat.
Faugh! It is worse than ever to-night, as I lie tossing restlessly upon my bed, watching the punkah swinging with a slow, heavy motion above me, drinking in gratefully the whiffs of cool air which it sets in motion, and listening irritably to the strong metallic ring of the mosquitoes’ song as they buzz savagely around.
A stifling, dreadful night! Heavy rumblings of thunder; uncouth masses of black cloud sailing one after the other across the moon: I watch them languidly through the opened windows, till they look like armies of shadowy spirits with mantles across their faces, fleeing uneasily from this fiery land. Oh, weary time! Will the night never pass? Oh, dreary monotone of the swinging punkah!
It is a little cooler,—or is it only the punkah ​pulled more vigorously? No; there is no mistaking a gentle rustling among the trees outside; a soft sound, scarcely of wind, but whisperings of its approach. A breeze comes in rather suddenly, in a great whiff, but silently, as if trying to hide itself, and panting quietly after a long chace. It is followed presently by another, cool and delicious. I see very little of the moon now, for the black spirits are tumbling over it in quick succession; the thunder rumbles louder and oftener than before—almost unceasingly,—and there is a general sensation of motion out of doors. I must be moving too: so I get up and look out of the window. The breeze is freshening every moment, and takes liberties with my hair. Something cold and fat falls upon my cheek. I wipe it off: it is wet: but soon there is another—two—three—and the gravel outside begins to sound as if somebody were throwing peas upon it. Yes! there can be no mistake any longer! It is coming down at last—good hard-pelting rain; and the wind dances about, wild with delight; and the heavy drops, as they strike the hard ground, seem to jump back a foot or so, with astonishment, one half imagines, at finding it so parched and dry.
What a commotion outside! All the horses are beginning to neigh, and a great many have escaped from their picket-ropes, and are running about kicking one another, in their half-frightened ecstacy; and the goats are ba-a-ahing amazingly; and the fowls express their gratification in hoarse chuckles; we shall soon hear the elephants too, with their cracked voices. All nature is in a bustle; there is hurrying to and fro, and excitement among the native servants, who all sleep out of doors, and who are now taking up their beds and running under cover, calling each other loudly by name; and the syces are busy catching the loose horses.
Night, indeed! Night, perhaps, with the enemy, and a panic amongst us; but no common night, with all this noise and hurried movement, and rustling and hiss of rain.
It is pelting down now, a dense, cold sheet of rain; the gutters are beginning to fill, and there is a pleasant bubbling sound of water as it gushes along the sides of the paths and in self-made drains, improvising small waterfalls and cascades. I can hear little bits of earth falling with a splash into the stream, as it goes about undermining banks. The rain comes down more like an opened sluice, than rain as we know it in England. With the help of the thick black clouds it has put out the moon altogether, and the thunder is playing a bass accompaniment the while.
So about this time I retire from the opened window, and find that the thermometer has fallen twelve degrees, and go to bed. The hunted breeze has come out of the corner of the room ere this, and, grown quite bold, has entered into a little, not unpleasant plot with the punkah, to blow me out of bed. A small hurricane is raging in my apartment; discipline is at an end among my loose papers, which are engaged now in a paper chace; the venetian shutters are flapping their wings impatiently, anxious to join them, and I half-expect every moment to hear them crow; and things generally are being blown about and away, and have assumed a disordered aspect. But one thing is not blown away,—the pleasant reflection that the furnace doors have been opened and discovered us still alive; that the fiery summer days are over; and that the rains have set in at last!