This is a blog post from
Vanakkam Amma and Appa,
Don’t you sometimes wish you could capture a moment in all of its essence, pack it up in a tidy parcel and post it to someone you love? There are SO many such moments here. Everyday.
It smells of wet earth and wild purple flowers. Peacocks, blackbirds and kingfishers have begun their morning song. The trees add to this melody with an occasional rustle. Blades of grass, heavy with raindrops, rise out of mud that was a dry brown just weeks ago. Stepping on them makes your feet shiver in joy, sending grassy goosebumps from the sole upwards. Your soul joins this symphony, cooing along with the cuckoo.
A part of you wishes you had someone to share this experience with. But you know that the moment is complete in itself. You are both spectator and participant in this orchestra. And it’s the absence of all other human beings, that makes this all the more special.
Since last Monday, gray clouds had been hanging overhead, enticing but elusive. Yesterday, we decided to take action. It was an extra-muggy summer afternoon. Jude and Prabha disappeared into the forest and returned with a three-foot-long bamboo pole. Two hours later, Prabha walked into the kitchen holding the pole. “Everybody, close your eyes!” he shouted, military-officer style. After triple-checking that none of us had broken his order — he shook something. A soft tinkling — like drops of water hitting a tin roof. It was the music of rains.
They had hollowed out the tube, filled it with lentil seeds, punched nails along the length of the pole and sealed both ends. On one end of the rainstick, Jude had painted a little girl dancing under a cloud.
“It is definitely going to rain, da,” Prabha said, jiggling the tube. Jude nodded sagely.
Later that evening during tea with Rani and Ritwik, the two of us adults were bemoaning the clouds and their never-ending game of hide-and-seek.
“Amma!” Ritwik shouted jumping off the stone bench. “Mazhai manthram podalama?” (Shall we say the rain chant?)
Yes! This 4-year-old imp who loves to climb people (he literally holds your hands, starts climbing, and settles down on your shoulders) even has a secret incantation to open up the clouds.
The two of us laughed along with him, though there was a faint trace of cynicism in our laughter. For future reference, this is the mantra:
“Dandanaka danakanaka, dandanaka danakanaka, doi, dooiiiiiii”
Repeated thrice.
When I got the dooiiiiiii wrong, Ritwik pulled my face towards him and said “Doooooooi ille, dooiiiiiii. Correct aa sonnadhaan varum.” Such faith!
Finally we got our dooiiiiiiis synchronised and shouted the mantram loud enough for the clouds of Meghalaya to hear us, so at least THEY would answer our prayers in case the ones hanging above continued to play hard-to-get.
At night, the sky turned purple. A continuous rumble of thunder. In the kitchen, we maintained neutral expressions, not wanting to be disappointed again. But Prabha and Ritwik had begun prepping for their celebratory dance.
Rani was the first to step out of the kitchen. “Mazhai!” she screamed, her voice rumbling with the delight of a mountain stream. The rest of us ran out, leaving our half-eaten plates inside. One moment it was a giant drizzle, the next moment hailstones. “Aalangatti Mazhai,” Muthzoo, Prabha and Satish let out a war cry, spontaneously racing from the kitchen to the prayer dome and back. Ritwik had climbed a stone bench and was dancing to the disco of the thunder and lightning. For a minute, Rani worried about her son getting head bumps from the hailstones but the delight in his eyes soon made her forget her maternal duty to worry. We grabbed mugs, picked up the fallen stones and fed each other icy bites of heaven.
Outside the prayer dome, Muthzoo was horizontal — paddling about in a puddle with Prabha splashing muddy water onto him. The ducks waddled about peacefully, having returned from a dusty brown to their original shade of white. The trees swayed along and in the forest the peacocks laughed and laughed.
An hour later, the music had changed to mellow. The frogs began their gentle chorus and raindrops trickled from the trees. We changed into dry clothes and settled down in the kitchen again. In all the monsoon madness, the door had been left open, and invisible forces had wiped our plates of their contents.
Over steaming tea of lemongrass and tulsi leaves, we sat down for ‘sharing circle’. On this night, ‘Aalangatti Mazhai’ was on everyone’s list. It was Nandha’s first hailstone experience. The first time Rani danced the rain disco with her son. Prabha’s first rainstick and Muthzoo’s first puddle swim.
I learned many important lessons last night. That rainsticks do work. As do Mazhai Mantrams. That cynicism is a needless adult concept. That rains transform the Universe into something beyond beautiful. And sometimes when it rains, it pours magical stones.
The Sun is still hiding behind the clouds but everyone has woken up. It’s a beautiful day. And there’s so much living to be done.
Yours with hailstones and hugs,
Maya
