The Monsoon and the Malayalee

The monsoon is upon us again (has it been a year since my last post? hmmm). As children, we loved the rains, pelting down in great sheets for hours on end between June and August. The sun made an occasional appearance as if to say "Hey, I'm still out here", but the rain god was the undisputed ruler of those months.

Not any more. For some reason, we got a whole bunch of monsoon-like rain much earlier than expected, wiping out much of the rice about to be harvested. Then the rain played peekaboo during June and July, sometimes falling with a vengeance, but mostly hiding behind the veils of wispy clouds like some shy young Malayalee kid about to be introduced to some distant relatives who, curse it, will demand a song and dance. The water behind the dams that supplies a good part of our electricity started hitting new lows, and for the first time in years, we got regular loadshedding (quite apart from the unannounced power outages that are a regular feature of electricity supply in Kerala, and deserve a whole chapter unto themselves) during the monsoon.

But the Malayalee loves and hates the monsoon. All through the hot summer, he has prayed for the first June rains to cool his frayed temper and take the sweat-wet shirt off its clinging hold on his back. And lo, the first rains come, and peace is all around. Of course peace is all around, because all the transformers go up in smoke, shorting in the wet link between their terminals, and electricity shuts off for the better part of a week while the employees of the Kerala State Electricity Board (KSEB) reluctantly put away their red flags and amble out under black umbrellas to stare at the wires and transformers hanging precariously on their posts and platforms. Some have actually fallen down in the gentle breeze that accompanied the first rains, shrugging off the wispy knot that held them up after the last repair.

And so, having given thanks for the arrival of the monsoon for all of two minutes, the Malayalee is up in arms again when the power goes off. These days, he depends on the microwave oven for his breakfast and dinner, what with his spouse having wised up to the ways of spouses (spice?) in other lands thanks to 24-hour television and frank discussions on all manner of household norms. She either picks up ready-to-pop-into-the-microwave junk packets from the spanking new retail supermarkets and files them beside the oven, or fills 10 divided tupperware bowls from the marathon cooking session last Sunday and stacks them neatly in the refrigerator.

So the malayalee goes hungry, and a hungry malayalee is god transformed into the unmentionable. It takes no more than a drop inadvertently splashed by a passing cyclist for the entire road to be filled with onlookers to the heated debate between the hapless cyclist and the splotched dhoti, with name-calling going well into three generations and beyond. Hoots from buses, cars, autorickshaws, lorries and two-wheelers do nothing to drop the decibel exchange and the sea of observers. Finally it takes the impending arrival of the long (and wet and therefore equally angry) arm of the law or a dumper filled with sand to make the crowd and the protagonists melt away as if nothing had happened (and nothing had).

Splashing is the pastime (or the time pass, as the Malayalee would have it) on the roads. As the surfaces give way to potholes that grow deeper by the hour, and the rain fills them, the unsuspecting pedestrian or vehicle has no idea just how far he/it will drop, and whether he/it will be able to come out of it without too much damage to limb or axle. Umbrellas bump and grind overhead as people weave unexpectedly in all directions. Some curse loudly, most curse silently. Which is just as well, for if some of those silent curses cruised the waves, the ambulances wouldn't be able to cope.

And so, when and if a Malayalee reaches a workplace, the first hour goes in drying out and exchanging notes on the trip in. The next hour is tea-break, and lunch is then just around the corner. After the siesta, the malayalee looks apprehensively up at the skies, and hurries into the boss's cabin to request the rest of the workday off, since it threatens to drizzle before one can reach the bus stop.

Most entrances to offices and shops start taking on a brownish hue from the moment the first Malayalee enters. There's a mat? Oh, come on, you don't seriously expect me to wipe my feet while there's still some rain splashing off the pavement? Where's the coffee?

The stray dogs look desolate, the fish stalls are bare with the trawling ban in force, but the trees and plants have all perked up, all except the hapless ones near transformers. And the children, thank God for the children, they lap up every second of downpour while chattering away, oblivious of teachers or parents or drivers all desperately trying to get their attention from nearby shelters.

The Malayalee splashes and curses his way home, and then curses inside the home since the spouse has not yet arrived and has not had the decency to dash back in the early afternoon to lay out tea and snacks. The Malayalee MUST have his evening cup of tea and snacks, if he is to forget the gruesome wet episodes of the day. All the leering at wet women doesn't make up for the lack of nourishment (we remember here that he missed breakfast, too). Which reminds me. It's tea-time. What am I doing writing this NOW??