Raining Cows and Monkeys

It has been raining for four straight days, and there are no signs of it stopping any time soon. There has been almost no lull in the torrential downpour. By now I have categorized at least twenty different kinds of rain, and I have even learned the Hindi word for this uncomfortable wetness emanating from the sky: varsha, which also happens to be the name of one of the girls in the hostel. At least it’s one less name that I don’t have to try and remember.

I have never experienced this much rain before. The locals around here have been complaining for the past several weeks that it has not rained nearly enough around here, and in India, this means disaster. So much of the country’s economy relies upon agriculture, and in this area, away from some of the benefits of the Green Revolution, rainfall is a must to ensure lively agriculture. Indra, the Hindu rain god, must have heard their complaints. She must have also heard me saying to everyone that I meet that I’m not cold, I don’t need a bigger jacket, and I’m used to much lower temperatures in Michigan. Only three weeks in India and karma is already kicking my butt.

Strangely enough, not being dry or warm for four days straight has not put me off as much as I thought it would. At home, I would be dreading going outside and my mood would turn absolutely foul if it rained for more than a half hour. I would put off leaving my bed as much as possible and make any excuse I could to stay inside. No umbrella or raincoat seemed to improve my mood. Yet here, the conditions are even worse. Excess rain means frequent power cuts, so I have taken to carrying a flashlight around with me in the house. There is no heating besides a small fireplace in the mud hut, and I can literally see my breath at night, yet there is nothing I can do about it. I can put on an extra layer or walk around some more to raise my body temperature, but ultimately I am at the mercy of the elements. I even have to continue walking a half hour to and from work every day. You know how your parents or grandparents would try to make you less spoiled by saying, “I had to walk uphill in the pouring rain and hail for an hour every day on my way to school with no car and no heat and no electricity!” Well, I have to walk uphill to KLB in the pouring rain and hail for about a half hour every day with no car and no heat and sometimes no electricity. And that’s normal.

Yes, even at KLB, attendance is a fraction of normal and when I arrived this morning there was no power and everybody was taking shelter under the balcony overhangs. In Michigan we cancel school because of a foot of snow. In Himachal school is canceled because of four days of rain. Also, in some places farther north, like upper Himachal, Jammu and Kashmir, some places are reporting 6-8 meters of snow. Two or three kilometers north of the mud hut, there is snow. If I could see the mountains uphill of here, I know that they would be completely capped in fresh white powder. Never before in my life have I seen such Mother Nature (or Indra) open up with power and strength.

The difference in attitude between Indians here and Americans to the weather is fascinating. I have already mentioned how agriculture relies upon regular rainfall, so of course they are grateful for that, but there’s something else. The rain has brought new life to the area in such a short period of time, it’s impossible to feel down. When I opened my door this morning to brave the hail on my walk to work, I was greeted with one of my favorite scents: fresh herbage. I smelled what I thought was cilantro, thyme and basil, but was probably a salad of local Indian varieties. I have never noticed it before now, so the rains must have jump started their growth. This smelled followed me for the next half hour; I loved it. There are also two areas in town that my friends have called “rivers,” but up until now they have just been a barren pile of dry rocks snaking through the valleys. Today, muddy waters were overflowing their banks and rushing downhill at rapid speed. Other waters moved through the streets like garbage collectors, removing the grime, filth and trash that had accumulated since the last rain. Even the monkeys, cows and stray dogs looked cleaner and happier than they had before, though their fur or hair was matted to their skin by the rain.

It was like the rainfall had purified the entire area and gave everybody a fresh start. So when I arrived at KLB this morning, I didn’t see a single face that wasn’t adorned with a bright smile. There was no power, no class, no internet, no chai (gasp!) and very little heat, but everybody was giddy and cheerful.

“Good morning, Pat! Namaste!”

“Isn’t this lovely Himachal weather?”

“ You are looking very smart this morning, sir.”

“Yes, very sexy! Highest degree, ha.”

I was taken aback. Not just by the sexy comment, though that was a bit disturbing. Rain just doesn’t cause this kind of a mood swing where I am from. Nature and the environment has been paved over and replaced by office space and parking lots. We hire people to clean our streets and pick up garbage instead of taking care of our surroundings the way they were meant to be treated. We plant young saplings and potted herbs where ancient trees, fresh flowers and natural gardens used to be anyway. Before coming to India, I have never been that much in touch with the environment. Even weekend camping trips with Boy Scouts left me feeling detached and longing for something more real and pure. Now, I have found a place where nature and civilization exist together. It’s a far cry from harmony and equal partnership, but maybe it can be called a mutual understanding. I feel blessed to be able to experience this and become a part of it so early in my time here. Never will I look at varsha the same way again.