Wish you were here

From where I come from, the seasons can be described as very hot, not-that-hot and somewhat-hot-but-rainy. I've lived in beautiful Colorado for about 3.5 years now.  In my stay here I've noticed 3 kinds of weather - scorching heat, blistering cold and surprisingly mellow "in-betweens". The "in-betweens" are transitions between winter and summer, and summer and winter. Let's pretend I don't know what the "in-betweens" are called, and that I'm using air-quotes where you see the actual quotes.

Anyway, the precipitation I've encountered for most of my life is rain in Bangalore, India and snow in Boulder, Colorado. Looks like summer finally decided to show up, reluctant and hesitant at first, non-committal and inconsistent at best. For a few weeks though, I was at distinct unease due to the seemingly random whims of Mother nature. The days would be bright, warm and sunny, and that's the last I saw clear daylight as I headed to my near window-less existence(isn't that some kind of health violation?). I'd get back out and the skies would be brimming with dark, thunderous clouds it seemed like the long drive back home was set to operatic overtures. And then with a frightening crack of thunder and an angry flash of lightening, the skies would open up, sending all age groups into dull panic.

Although I'm used to large quantities of rain, and the simultaneous joy and agony that comes with it, it's pretty surreal watching it rain down on a relatively new terrain, and watch equally bewildered population deal with it. I'm told this is what Colorado was some ten years ago, that summer's visit would be heralded by rain and hostile hail. It didn't last too long, but it was a good change from the usual. Now we can all get back to complaining about the mid nineties heat, and pine for winter again.

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Our house in Bangalore had some history about it. It was at least 150 years old, and had seen nearly 3 generations from cradle to the funeral pyre. It was a tiled house, and the tiles bore the year of their manufacture - 1835. As a 10 year old, I'd try and break off parts of the edge of the roof, just because I wanted to destroy something so many times older than me. The roof went through multiple repairs and it represented my growth in a tangential way. The roof was in two stages and I'd get tennis balls, frisbees stuck on the lower level. I would also toss my broken teeth on to the roof. This was something everyone in my family had been doing, and I'd envisioned that the roof would soon be covered entirely with teeth, largely due to my doing.

Being the only boy in the compound (dad was dodging bullets at the Indo-Pak borders those days), an ambitious throw meant I'd lost a toy right away, no one to get them for me and no liberties to climb the roof. Soon, the family got bigger, dad returned, I grew taller and I was finally allowed to retrieve possessions from the roof. Only, the double edge sword of growing up meant that I was too heavy to try anything fanciful on the delicate century old roof.

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Sensitivity to rain is almost in my blood. I can smell it a mile away, and it fills me with an abstract sense of joy. Since rain often brought relief to the agonizing heat, and power cuts meant that everyone in the family would actually spend time together, I'd wait for hours looking anxiously at the sky. It would begin as a steady tap on the roof. The sounds rain makes on a tiled roof, held only by wooden beams, is distinct. The steady beat invokes fear, since the roof sounds like it could give anytime, and yet gives the sensation of being in a dry bubble being splashed with water. The rhythm would pick up, my granma would mute the blasted TV, nod her head side to side and say male (rain) with a small satisfied smile. She had quite the green thumb and the knowledge that her beloved plants would thrive brought her great happiness. Mum would emerge from the kitchen, pots and pans in tow ready to organize a blitz. The roof wasn't without its faults - it had sprung numerous leaks. Being agile at the time, it was my job to run around and place a pot under every drip we knew about. Soon the sounds of the drizzle would be accompanied by steady drips as water collected in the pots one drop at a time. In no time the rain would turn into a torrent, and the loud bursting sound was the transformer down the block shorting out, and all lights would disappear. I would open our double front doors, setup a chair for granma, as mum brought out hot tea and fried finger food. While the tea cooled, she'd get out to the courtyard and catch hailstones in her mouth beckoning me to do the same. I would join her, to hear her singing in joy. Soon, we would be joined my aunt, and later my kid brother. He loved the rain. As a toddler, he wasn't allowed out in the rain, but loved standing at the windows, holding his hand out to catch passing raindrops. He grew too, and soon it was a family getting rained on. In the absence of hail, we would make little paper boats and see how far they'd float in the numerous streams forming in our courtyard. We'd return to the veranda, and while mum dried my hair, I'd sip the tea, and indulge in golden brown bondas and pakoras (onions, potatoes and spicy peppers batter-dipped and deep fried to perfection).

I like rain, love getting drenched, because somewhere around the globe a family minus one is still doing the same.