Soon after Holi, the rains began and continued through May, June and July. They robbed us of many cherished memories of the spectacular advent of Saavan, the months of monsoon. After a short spring ending with the fiery blossoms of palas, followed by gulmohars and amaltas, came Baisakhi on April 13 with the sun’s scorching heat and hot winds. It was a foolish man who ventured out and risked getting heat or sunstroke. Even those who stayed indoors were not spared prickly heat round their necks. The inferno seemed endless, was broken only by dust-storms and invasions by army of locusts descending from the skies to nibble up all the greenery. The only birds you heard in the long pre-monsoon afternoons were koels calling from their leafy hide-outs and hawk-cuckoos (papeehas) from remote distances.

Then suddenly you heard the wailing cry of the megh-papeeha, the monsoon bird, the harbinger of the season of rains. Your spirits lifted: succour was at hand round the corner. And sure as ever, the next afternoon the grey sky turned black with mountains of rain clouds rolling across, announcing their arrival with flashes of lightning followed by thunder that shook the earth. First, a few drops fell on the parched earth. It gave thanks by emitting a heavenly fragrance. Then it began to pour. People ran out with shouts of joy: ho, ho, ho. It came down in torrents. As the night fell, it was filled with the croaking of frogs; trees and bushes were lit up by fireflies (jugnoos) twinkling between the branches. Out of nowhere came moths to hover round every exposed light, to live their brief lives before they died in heaps.

Some film songs sung by Lata Mangeshkar came to mind:

“O Sajanna! Barkha bahaar aayee, jal ke phuar laayee” (O sweetheart, the season of rains has come, bringing showers of rain) and the duet: “Saavan kaa maheena, pavan karey sore,/ Jiyara rey jhoomey jaisey ki ban-ma naachey more” — “It is the month of Saavan, the sound of wind fills the air, my heart rejoices and dances, as in the woods dance peacocks.” You did not have to go to the woods to see the peacocks’ ballet, they performed them in city parks and gardens — tails with hundreds of green-blue eyes spread out like fans, lower wings throbbing with passion as they strutted around the seemingly unresponsive, drab-looking peahens. Having won its mate, the male let down its tail, raised its neck and let out a triumphant cry, paon paon.

It was time for girls to go to swings, for boys to fly kites. It was India’s best month for celebrations because more than the other eleven months it revived hopes of a good harvest of rice and maize. It was a celebration of the renewal of life.

A poem called life

I have noticed a certain pattern in a phenomenon of child prodigies. Most of them are in the fields of mathematics, music or poetry. And most manifest their prowess in these fields in the early years of adolescence. To excel is in their genes.

Those who have poetry in their souls start playing with rhymed words in their early years. Some incident, like a tragedy in their families or an affliction, triggers off the muse and they produce the best they have in them. A recent chance-discovery is 14-year old Janhavi Malhotra of St Kabir Public School of Chandigarh. She is the only child of her parents. She is stricken with cancer. Her collection of poems, Aloft on Wings of Grit, illustrated by Jaspreet Kaur, was launched in Chandigarh a few days ago. Her poems are remarkable in their brevity, perception of the realities of life and sensitivity to the music of words.

I adduce a few examples:

As I look into the mirror /What is it I

see?

A familiar face /Staring back at me.

It’s the same face that everyone sees, /But as I gaze into her soul/ I know there’s more to me.

The unspoken thoughts, the mind

-less fears

The truth and the lies, the

uncried tears —

The umpteen wishes to fly high

The hopes and dreams to touch the

sky.

“Mirror, Mirror on the wall” I ask,

/“How do I look today?”

The mirror doesn’t reply, /But I start

my day anyway.”

These lines were written last year when symptoms of the disease afflicting her manifested themselves:

Death had never been so close before

Lips chalk white, lying on the bath

rooms floor,

My throat is scraped, gagging and

retching,

Blood pouring out of my mouth,

teeth a clenching.

The world turns monochrome, as I’m

sucked into a black hole

Muffled voices call out to me, try and

reach out to my soul,

I want to tell them I’m dying; I want

to tell them I care,

I want to tell them I’ll miss them,

even when I’m not there.

I feel I’m sinking, I feel like I’m

drowning

As I turn oblivious to my

surrounding,

If there’s something that keeps me

afloat momentarily

It’s your face, your smile, your every

memory.

I wish Janhavi speedy recovery and a long, creative, happy live.

Holy matrimony

My wife is ill. As there is no other husband in the family to look after her, kindly grant me leave for one day.

(Contributed by J.P. Singh Kaka, Bhopal)