The sound of thunder grumbled like a grumpy Bengali uncle. Coconut trees outside swayed like hula dancers with vertigo. Torrential rain beat on the tin roof of the house like a drum solo gone rogue. The wind threatened to extinguish the lamp, and we, the siblings, huddled together in my grandfather’s small room, whispering ghost stories that sent shivers down our spines faster than you can say “bhoot.” Every now and then, gusts of wind would rush through the gaps in the bamboo wall, snuffing out the lamp. We’d shriek like startled pigeons and scramble to relight it. Sometimes, the cold, wet wind would carry the smell of petrichor, like a giant spilling their pot of “fresh earth” perfume. And that’s when I knew – it was here. My love affair with rain, born right there in that flickering lamplight.
Back then, I didn’t realize I shared this monsoon obsession with a whole bunch of other Bengalis. Now I do. That’s why I wait for the rains, not the kind that drown Kolkata in oil-slick mud and knee-deep puddles. I crave the rains that paint the deserted beach of Talsari white at night, a rain like a thick, cascading curtain you can almost touch. Sometimes it finds me in Purulia, the land of Sal forests, where the rain polishes the roads to a shine and mountain streams turn into playful puppies, chasing each other down to the main road. Other times, I find myself by the banks of the Ajay River, the usually scrawny river turning into a raging bull, thrashing against the rocks.
And then there’s the monsoon in the mountains – a whole other level of magic. It’s like having a heart-to-heart with the Rain herself, nestled amongst the emerald embrace of the hills. Picking a favorite is like choosing between biryani and mutton kosha – impossible! But mountain rain holds a special place in my heart. Sure, it scares some folks, but last monsoon, a bunch of us crazy girls decided to spend time there. Those two days were the best of our lives, hands down, no debate.
Picture this: 11:30 pm, we’re huddled under a giant umbrella on the homestay lawn, giggling as the lights on the opposite mountain flicker on and off. Suddenly, a cold, wet sensation – the clouds had decided to crash our party! They literally descended right down to my feet, swallowing the mountain whole. In a flash, I was Usain Bolt-ing back to the house, yelling, “Moumita, wake up! We gotta go cloud-catching!” Moumita, bless her sleepy soul, fumbled for her camera. “Camera can wait,” I shrieked. “Come see this with your own eyes!” We ended up sitting under that umbrella for almost an hour, two goofy grins plastered on our faces, the rest of the world fast asleep.
The next morning, we were out like a bunch of kittens unleashed in a yarn factory. Wandering the streets, soaking in the clouds, clicking away on our cameras like paparazzi. We spent the entire day chasing the rain and clouds, painting the mountain roads with our laughter. Sure, you can see rain from your window in the city, but it’s a whole different story up here. The mountain views, the cloud-kissed roads – pure, unadulterated magic. Only those who’ve experienced a monsoon in the mountains can truly understand.
The waterfalls cascading down the roadside cliffs, the sleepy villages nestled in the hills, Tiger Hill waking up with a yawn, Lamahatta basking in the misty mornings, the playful hide-and-seek between the pine trees and the clouds on the mountain roads… and then there’s the view from Rohini – the valley below, a canvas splashed with sunshine and rain showers, a masterpiece by Mother Nature herself.
Each season paints the mountains a different color, a different mood. And they just won’t let me stay home. July’s monsoon is calling again, the mountains beckoning with their promise of rain-washed adventures. And this time, you bet I’m answering!
Written by: Swati Roy
Translated by Izifiso, check original content here: https://www.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=10224575602527474&id=1531344426&mibextid=oFDknk&rdid=QbpWLs7oJ9UvRKno
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