India 7: The Monsoon
It’s monsoon season here in South India. No, scrap that. There is a monsoon. Things rot here. Monsoon season brings endless rain, and there’s a distinct absence of fireplaces. Nothing to burn up the moisture. The life giving water drowns out the air so life grows and then rots. Mould seeps out of walls and seeks clean surfaces. Covers of books curl inwards, laptops must be left on with their small generators of dry heat, the film of moisture that sits on your skin and hair and clothes becomes tolerable. It must unless you want to explore the depths of damp and madness.
At first, the monsoon was akin to a snow-day. The quiet joy of needing to stay indoors, eat good food and read a book. Words flow easier then too. A break in the constant doing. Instead, you’re just being. And so, writing and words. Auroville is a new-age settlement, where seekers come to find what they seek. The Mother? The Matrimandir? At the very least, there’s a french bakery (Pondicherry’s influence). Fresh, crusty white bread with sharp blue cheese and tart red tomatoes are a true pleasure on the first rain-day. By day four, they lose their lustre.
As water continues to pour from the sky, the place that was once fertile with ideas and words begins to reach saturation. More noise is needed, more stimulus, more subject matter and inspiration. For the constant rain will at first water the little seeds of inspirations that were planted before the rains came, or before you came to the rain. But you must leave before it begins to drown them out and turn to rot.
Auroville was a week of green, and rain, and moisture on every surface. Snow-days turned to cabin fever, and you began to understand the stories you’ve been told of a place in Australia where the humidity gets so bad it drives people to moments of madness. Not planned, but spontaneous suicide. Walking out in front of cars, and off of cliffs. It’s not that bad, of course. But you realise, it is for some. Reading in the newspaper of the floods in Chennai, the worst in a hundred years. Too many have lost their homes, their livelihoods, their lives. And the same at home! In Edinburgh and Cumbria. It gets to the stage you can’t imagine a world not drenched in water. The low pressure, the constant pounding down of rain, the moisture on every surface dampens your spirits, your mind, your spark. Too much water becomes suffocating.
The day the rains stop, you breathe deeply. Coco, the resident 16 year old cat who has been a companion most evenings on the damp couch, ventures outside. It has been an experience, one that was needed after the holy temples of Rameswaram and the crowds of Kanyakumari, and the fever and flu that was brought on by both. But, now, there is a wedding in Chennai!
It’s time to move on.
