Back in those days, the rain used to fall all over Time, drenching it, flooding it into sluggishness. I would sit on the black and shiny stone sill of the box-like window that formed a deep square hole in the heavy wall, watching the wet afternoon.
The breeze would turn into a wind every other minute, slamming the flimsy wooden window shutter against the thick prison-like bars, over and over again. I had imagined an invisible person standing behind the wooden plank, pushing it toward me, sending little droplets of rain water flying off its chipped edges. The smell of wood that never fully dried would come screaming toward the open window, only to hit it and fly back again.
Sometimes I would read a quiet book in the dull light that hung lazily in the room. With the sun hidden deep behind the thick rain clouds, the huge mango and tamarind trees, it would take careful peering to see the words on pages.
Once the downpour calmed down to a heavy drizzle, I would close the book, listening to the water gush and gurgle down the tiled gutter from the roof.
I always wondered where the birds hid from the onslaught of the Kerala monsoon. When the clouds began gathering in tall, endless spires of grey, they would fly in a fluttery frenzy, cawing and twittering to each other. And once the rain started pouring down mercilessly, all you could hear would be water. No cawing, no twittering and no fluttering. On some rare occasions, you might see an endless line of crows or sparrows on an overhead electricity line over a field, sitting still, drenched and dripping, watching the rain in silence. Sometimes, one bird will fluff its feathers out, squirm a little and fly away into the field, breaking the long dotted line of quiet feathers and patient eyes staring at the wet crops.
The fields turn into large swamps of mud and dirt, well above the heads of young rice grains, the plantain trees droop under the weight of their own shoots, the jackfruit trees stand over large puddles under their canopies, the mango trees shed precious green fruit into slushy mud, the coconut trees lean over the others, shivering in the wind...and time…forgotten.
The breeze would turn into a wind every other minute, slamming the flimsy wooden window shutter against the thick prison-like bars, over and over again. I had imagined an invisible person standing behind the wooden plank, pushing it toward me, sending little droplets of rain water flying off its chipped edges. The smell of wood that never fully dried would come screaming toward the open window, only to hit it and fly back again.
Sometimes I would read a quiet book in the dull light that hung lazily in the room. With the sun hidden deep behind the thick rain clouds, the huge mango and tamarind trees, it would take careful peering to see the words on pages.
Once the downpour calmed down to a heavy drizzle, I would close the book, listening to the water gush and gurgle down the tiled gutter from the roof.
I always wondered where the birds hid from the onslaught of the Kerala monsoon. When the clouds began gathering in tall, endless spires of grey, they would fly in a fluttery frenzy, cawing and twittering to each other. And once the rain started pouring down mercilessly, all you could hear would be water. No cawing, no twittering and no fluttering. On some rare occasions, you might see an endless line of crows or sparrows on an overhead electricity line over a field, sitting still, drenched and dripping, watching the rain in silence. Sometimes, one bird will fluff its feathers out, squirm a little and fly away into the field, breaking the long dotted line of quiet feathers and patient eyes staring at the wet crops.
The fields turn into large swamps of mud and dirt, well above the heads of young rice grains, the plantain trees droop under the weight of their own shoots, the jackfruit trees stand over large puddles under their canopies, the mango trees shed precious green fruit into slushy mud, the coconut trees lean over the others, shivering in the wind...and time…forgotten.
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