THE MONSOON MAGIC By: Bennet Paes
Traditionally, we Goans have a-saint-a-season, and for a reason. St. Anthony is for the coming of rains and San Joao to get us drenched in it. But nothing of that sort happened, and only a few days ago we were soaking in sweat under a sweltering sun. The only consolation came, not surprisingly though, from the inimitable Indian meteorologists whose college curriculum now seems to include a subject called: ‘guessing games’. At first they said the southwesterly winds had already completed their damage over the Andamans and were now threatening Kerala, which meant only two more days for us to sweat under. That, however, made great news. Not two days – four more went in waiting. The sun still beat our rooftops and the earth parched drier. The famous weathermen then spun us into another glimmer of hope. They lectured us saying that ‘slight inaccuracies’ are always factored into weather predictions, which are further compounded by this phenomenon-come-lately known as global warming. We heard that sermon, as we usually do when men on earth talk about heavenly matters, and went as far as pushing the pill further down. But at last relief came our way. The sun went into hiding and let the clouds release a drizzle accompanied by a thunderous applause. Soon after, a downpour followed. It danced with the towering trees that had been longing for a partner all through the summer. The sweat on our shirts turned into little pools of water in our fields, the frogs ended their hibernation and croaked a symphony of sounds so reminiscent of our childhood days. It was green, green, green everywhere. By Jove! That was magic. ----------------------------------------
