This Mind and the Monsoon

Photo by Maxiphoto/iStock / Getty Images

Photo by Maxiphoto/iStock / Getty Images

I am carrying a torch with me mornings these days when I step out at 5:00. The light breaks by 5:30, but until then I've to be sure no tree has been yanked of its branches overnight. At the start of the week an entire tree had fallen before Karle's house, and I couldn't pass it through its left part or its right part or through its middle. To be honest I did try to pierce the right and I went under the branches through the foliage that glistened before my torchlight, and fear came upon me of snakes shaken by the events of the night, by thunder and lighting and buildings resonating with terrible sound, and I was sure any snake would be in a rotten mood, and that even a non-venomous snake would've obtained some poison to deliver into a hapless morning walker. With such thoughts rising I leapt back and did an about turn and took an alternate route. I'm embarrassed to say it, but that's what I did, and I must admit it now when I can, because someday this blog might be read by hundreds of thousands, and I'd no more be able to reveal these things about me.

It rained just like that last night and it felt like our roof was being flayed of everything on it but in the morning we saw that all that had happened was that the coupling between a section of solar panels had come loose. The water storage and the grills and the Mangalore-tiled pavilion and everything else had been pushed and pulled as by giant hands, but they'd all held. The house has survived a week's pounding by the elements, and I should send a letter of thanks to the contractor who built it fourteen years ago, but I'll probably not, and that's another story.

And today, just now, as I started to write this post, it started to rain to the accompaniment of thunder. A big bang went off a short distance away, clearly the transformer that serves our neighbourhood has blown, and the lights have gone. I'm reclined in the comfort of a spacious but hemmed-in living room, with windows only in the outer rooms. I cannot see the play of lightning, I can only wonder at the sure wondrousness of it, and at the low great rumble that appears to have decided to stay with us this time round. As like in a chorus, the waters falling from the already full gutters round the house are giving depth and body to the drama. It is rather nice, this mix of the dark and the damp and a growing chill and the unnerving action, and in the net my spirits should rise. They've been so down. (We'll keep this too under wraps when I become famous, dear few readers of this blog.)

Oh yes. It's to raise your spirits that the monsoons come.