Chasing the Monsoon: A Modern Pilgrimage Through India by Alexander Frater

Author:Alexander Frater [Frater, Alexander]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Asia, India & South Asia, Essays & Travelogues, Travel
ISBN: 9780786116164
Google: EU_KPM9_JjwC
Amazon: 1483023079
Publisher: Pan Macmillan
Published: 2000-05-01T22:00:00+00:00

In the Indian Post a report dated 9 June said, ‘The South-West monsoon has advanced towards Greater Bombay, according to a city weather bureau report this evening, which means rains are here to stay for the next three months.’ Cloudy skies and heavy showers were predicted for today. So, denied by some, acknowledged by others, confusing many, it had indeed sneaked in yesterday under the cloak of its own advance downpours and now, if the authorities had got it right, was in position over the city. Recalling the emphatic nature of its arrival at Trivandrum and Cochin I wondered about this curiously covert Bombay burst and, for my own peace of mind, took a taxi out to the Meteorological Centre at Colaba.

Localized flooding sent us on a roundabout route. It was a pleasant run, affording glimpses of the sea and a beach on which a fleet of fishing boats stood high and dry, hauled up for the monsoon and now being turned into dwellings. Intrigued, I stopped the taxi and went to look. The hulls, resting on stones, had been raised a couple of feet off the sand. Above, bamboo joists ran from central ridgepoles over which the fishermen were now placing thatched roofs; extensive overhanging eaves would provide additional shelter for anyone standing beneath. Iron pots and brick fireplaces indicated that the kitchens were located under the sterns. More thatch walled in the superstructures forward and aft, creating snug, weatherproof living areas accessible by ladder.

A lanky young man in a breechclout invited me to scale his rickety ladder. I did so and found his family there – a woman and three young children busy arranging bed-rolls, cushions, mats, even brass ornaments and a vase containing freshly picked flowers. A mirror stood propped against a partly dismantled diesel engine. Though it reeked offish and fuel oil, the interior was starting to take on a homely look.

The flowers were mauve and white, very like the crinum lilies which traditionally come into bloom a week before the burst and, like the pied-crested cuckoo, are regarded as one of its precursors. Back in the taxi I questioned the driver about them but he said lilies had little relevance to the monsoon. For him it was a time of flooded roads, endless jams and breakdowns, starting and ignition problems, rust and corrosion, seats made constantly wet by damp passengers, permanent puddles on the floor from their venting umbrellas. During the course of the next three months his windscreen wiper motor would burn out at least once, probably twice.

‘No, this is not good time in Bombay,’ he said. ‘And always the monsoon bring death. The first was this morning. A big boulder displaced by rain fell into a chowk near Afghan Church. It killed a woman.’

As we drew up at the Met Office the air was moist and dim, with a curious blue opacity. The building stood in a tree-filled compound which gave off the smells of a garden after rain. Inside I passed a wall plaque which said INDIAN OCEAN FLOOR.

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