April is yet to come, and it is far from being cruellest. Still, the vapid smell of heat lingers inside our weary veins, just in anticipation. Our eyes long for the army of rain-clouds that would connect multitudes to a half-forgotten yearning from the beginning of civilization.
In literature, the advent of monsoon has always been described as a strange concoction of pleasure and nostalgia. Sanskrit poems went gaga over the melody of rains in solitary nights, the effect of incessant raindrops on a lovesick heart, has, in fact, become a cliché in Indian literature. However, as we all know, clichés die hard. Somewhere, deep beneath our little gray cells, there is a hidden nostalgia for something or someone, which always responds to the sound of rains.
In various parts of India, monsoon is no less than a festival. It, indeed, is a catharsis for the vast arid plains of the country, which, for the most parts of the year, are molested by the sun. Far from the rural settings, the caress of raindrops on a glass-window may excite the senses of a prodigal soul as well; it becomes a sort of homecoming for the urbane in exile.
Another aspect of the rainy season has remained unexplored to pundits and sociologists. There has never been a more intimate natural force in the history of our planet. Rain connects us to ourselves, it initiates lonely dialogues wherever there were silent remonstrations. It even bridges the gulf between ancient wisdom and new –age knowledge.
Being a welcome break to our plastic reality, clouds hover over high-rises and drench the root of our forlorn existence. Strangely the smell of wet earth brings us back to the beginning of beginning itself. Collective memory has no place in our hurly-burly world; we win and lose wars all by ourselves. But, only the organic sense of the smell of wet earth can awake a faint trace of times past, and transcends us for a moment or two, to places hitherto unknown. The sensation at once annoys and attracts us, irresistibly.
The desire is always there. It has always been there. In cultural outbreaks across the world, the willingness to surrender before primal urges has been more than apparent, and the ultimate urge to dissolve into ecstatic drops of rain has more than once portrayed the frail nature of human aspirations, along with its intense proclivity towards the womb of the earth—
“O soul, be changed into little waterdrops,
And fall into the ocean, ne’er be found!”
The story of human race has been condensed into these two lines, while the wait for rains remains a cry to get back unto the mysterious. For once, and, may be, for all.
A mix of confusion and chaos, generally speaking!!! Born in a sleepy town (snoring would have been more appropriate), and brought up in a city, Calcutta, he always tries to wash his eyes with unadulterated wonder! Tried his hand at Economics, they both failed each other. It was an amicable separation. Currently, working as a sub-editor in a company that outsources editorials to grim-looking newspaper offices.
Image Source: [http://www.flickr.com/photos/mckaysavage/2799493740/]