The Retreating Romance Of Rain
By: Pooja Kothari
Tags: Seasons, Romance, Rain, Movies, Romantic

The mere sight of dark clouds could excite me. But my rose-tinted glasses are coming off, even as I dance my way through the reality of a downpour.

Photo by michael podger on Unsplash

It’s been raining cats and dogs. Rain drops are pelting the window hard enough for me to cancel a trip to office and decide to work from home. It’s not a day to be caught in traffic, which is chaotic even without water logging.

I’ve always viewed rains with a certain romanticism — not surprising since I spent the early years of my life in drought-prone Rajasthan. You remember the smell of earth after the first rain? My heart soars when that smell hits my senses — and memories vie with each other for recall.

In our small town existence, season’s first shower was an excuse to party. My grandmother would get the kitchen going on pakoras and chai; my Mom and her sisters-in-law would go up to the terrace allegedly to clean it but mostly to soak in the rain — and escape the mother-in-law. The kids would float paper boats while dancing in the rain.

When Sridevi danced to Megha Re Megha in Lamhe, she truly captured the romance of rains in my home state. My Mom still goes up to the terrace to get soaked when it rains. The customary jhoola (swing) completes the shot. And Alexa elevates the mood with the right songs.

I remember one afternoon when the school let us off early because of unprecedented rains. My sisters and I kept waiting for someone to turn up and take us home. After a while, I decided to take matters in my hands. I took each sister by the hand — and marched off in ankle-deep water in the direction of home. The novelty of splashing in the water wore off a few meters away.

I was yet to celebrate my first double-digit birthday. I cannot recall how we managed to find our way home. I remember the shock on my parents face — we looked like drowning rats with water dripping from bags, hair and shoes. It took Mom’s garama garam halwa to ease the cold out of our drenched bodies.

The teenage years built on the romantic notions around rain. The more movies I watched, the greater the excitement of having a partner who’d revel in the rain as I did. Every kiss in the rain looked so much more magical — remember the final scene of Four Weddings & A Funeral?

Alas, my rose-colored glasses came off in adulthood.

The husband was brought up in a hill town and thinks pain when I say rain! His memory bank throws up bone-chilling cold — even as my imagination leaps from Sharmila Tagore in Roop tera mastana to the unlikely Smita Patil romancing Amit ji in Aaj rapat jaaye to hume na uthayeyo.

I tell the husband a fire place would have fixed the problem — and provided a warmer set of memories. Always pragmatic, he’s quick to remind me this is real life. Unlike movies, you have to clean a fire place yourself.

He continues to be a kill joy when it comes to rains. There’s no convincing him to hop on a flight and head to Goa to experience its magic in monsoons — the pandemic has given him such a convenient excuse. He’d bite my head off if I as much as suggest a long drive. My only consolation is that he’ll Swiggy pakoras without procrastinating.

A stint in Mumbai many moons ago made rainy weather unforgettable, albeit in an entirely unromantic manner. I remember looking for rubber boots so I could wade through the water on the streets. It took tremendous effort to turn up for work when it had been raining incessantly the night before — though the canteen on the top floor of the building made up for the inconvenience.

I almost didn’t make it to the hospital for the delivery of my first child since the roads were waterlogged on that wet July morning. We thought we had another four weeks but the baby decided to arrive early, accompanied by a heavy downpour. Luckily for us, the doctor made it in time.

As if it wasn’t hard enough to adapt to motherhood, the task was made even more difficult by the wet weather. Try drying nappies when the sun won’t even peak out of the clouds for days at end! All my good intentions of not using diapers went flying out of the window along with the cloth triangles.

Recent memories have wiped off some more of the rose tint. I found myself visiting an aunt living in another city last month. We had visited her on the same date two years ago — the same group of people traveling in the same SUV parked outside a house in the same locality. And both times, we woke up to a severe downpour and water-logged streets. The wheels of the car were underwater. And it kept pouring all day.

I had only seen it happen on television — those shots of people being rescued from submerged localities. I couldn’t believe I was in the same situation — not once, but twice. I’m never visiting the aunt ever again in the monsoons.

As for that self-satisfied smirk on the husband’s face? If only I could have found a way to wipe it off across the screen!

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