My secret: I love the rain
By: Kiran Kannar
Tags: San Francisco, Monsoon, Rain, Living, Warmth

It has been a rainy weekend in San Francisco, after a long time. It was perhaps two years ago when it rained cats and dogs through the year — this weekend took me back to those days. It also took me back further — to my childhood.

I grew up in a coastal town in the foothills of the Western Ghats of India. It meant a monsoon season from June to October — one where you would hardly see the sun, and it poured and poured without a break for weeks.

Growing up on a farm, the monsoon season visibly transformed everything around me. At first, the grass would be green again with fresh green leaves. Within the first two weeks, they overgrew, making everything a verdant splash. While it was a feast for the eyes, it was misery everywhere else, as the standing waters and soggy soil invited mosquitoes. These weren’t the tiny ones you would find flying around perenially — these were the giant ones that had it in for you, biting you on every inch of skin you left exposed.

As a kid, I was terrified of the events that would unfold during this period. I distinctly recall the slender green vine snakes I would find coiled around the flower bushes and low hanging branches of the mango and yellow sampige trees. As I approached to pluck the flowers, they would arrange themselves in a tall stance while they remained coiled to the branches. Appa’s reassurance that they were harmless didn’t help. Neither did finding a variety of snakes slithering around the farm. Sometimes, you would find one resting on the porch; many a time, you would find two of them having a romantic dance-off. We even had one venomous snake fall from our tiled roof. (Shudder)

King cobras were extremely common too. When they would appear around our house, doDDa (grandmother) would give us all a handful of rice; we would sprinkle it on them, praying for health and safety. She would then regale me with stories of the misfortunes of those who disrespected the King Cobra. King Cobras, in my religion, are revered as gods. As a brahmin, my extended family would often do long funerals for King Cobras.

There was a time when the rains subsided and I decided to walk around the waterlogged farm. I saw a small family of snakes — a bunch of snakelets coiled together. That effectively put an end to my trips in the denser parts of the farms. It didn’t help to find snakes crossing your path as you walked through the paddy fields to the school bus stop.

I wish snakes were the only thing. There were at least four different kinds of chelu (scorpions) that I have seen. I can vividly remember the time I happened on one that crawled at light speeds and went below my almirah. I ended up removing everything from it, inverting it for a full-blown inspection. It still creeps me out that I never found that chelu.

All of this feels like it’s straight out of a horror movie, and yet it is all true. Oh, did I mention that the cats loved to bring a snake home? They never killed a snake before bringing them home. They would crawl into our rooms with the snake and playfully watch it wiggle around. Monsoon nights were a nightmare every night!

While these dangers of living in a halli mane (village house) lingered through the monsoon, it rained cats and dogs all along. The days after heavy rainfall, the streams around the paddy fields would overflow. It was an ordeal to get to the bus stop, meandering around the overflowing water and submerged pathways through the paddy fields. As a kid, I once ran through a rail-less bridge, slipped, and fell into the gushing waters of the flooded streams, watching my Amma (mother) see me get carried away. Thankfully, I ended up holding on to a tree branch and climbed back up a few meters further.

Umbrellas were useless; it rained so heavily that a few minutes of a walk with one would leave you soaking wet. However, there were days when the monsoon rain would turn into a small drizzle. They would never stop altogether — annoying wetness that would persist till October.

* * * *

I walk up Potrero Hill to the tree atop, where I linger around soaking in the wet views of the city. It has stopped raining momentarily; the soil seems to be breathing in, releasing strong earthy scents. The wet bark of the solitary tree reminds me why despite all of the truly terrifying things, I love rain.

Every May, there would be a prelude to the actual monsoon. The petrichor is unforgettable as the scorched soil gave in to the first rains. Every time I delay watering my potted plants, I smell the petrichor — a celebration of familiar comfort and sustenance.

In the few moments that it stopped raining, every tree in the vicinity would breathe again. The smell of the soaked mango and oak tree bark is ethereal. Those moments had a different kind of silence — one of invisible vigorous activity, bringing joy to my heart.

Once October dawned upon us, it brought about thunderstorms and heavy lightning. Often, the power fuse would break due to the severity. The switchboard would crackle with every thunder. Amma would move us all to the paDsale (west-facing living room), where those sounds couldn’t be heard in their full strength. Having woken up to a frightening natural phenomenon, Amma’s soothing voice as she tucked me in mollified the crackling sounds. Every time I hear a rare thunder in SF, I am reminded of the warm bedsheets and the lullaby — a comfort of memory and recall.

The tip-tap of the rain against the windows and the tiled roof always brought about a calm. Everything around me decelerated, allowing me to savor those moments. The rousing winds, the swaying coconut trees in the distance, and the overflowing brook by my house — a ruckus outside drowned by the tip-tap.

* * * *

When it rains, it lights and lightens up my heart. The solitude warmth of the heated home only can do so much. The tip-tap from the splattering rain droplets take me everywhere I have experienced joy, in a way the summer sun does not. I do wish for the sun, but the comfort of the warmth goads me into hoping nothing changed in the present. Unfortunately, that’s not much given I live in California; it’s going to be bright and sunny again tomorrow. Till then, this heart is beating for the next time it rains.