There is something about the monsoons in the mountains. This is fast becoming my favourite season of the year. It leaves me inquisitively waiting for the next one to arrive. And this change, I have been silently noticing over the last few years.
The clouds hover over the slopes. Dark, heavy, almost still. And then comes the thunder — loud and electric. The pitter-patter of the rains washes down the mountain sides, leaving everything a much darker shade of green than the dry version of before. The trees, the grass, the little paths, the old houses — everything seems to breathe a little easier. The pain subsides and the vigour of life returns.
I somehow enjoy the monsoons in the pahad. Nature is at its fullest, and I cannot even fully absorb all that it has to offer in a single spell. Sometimes when the pouring continues unabated through the day, it doesn’t disturb you. Its muffled tone has a sense of deep quietness. A different kind of tranquillity prevails. And in the middle of all this are the bird songs, the rustling of the leaves, the earthy smell of the wet soil, the clouds moving slowly across the ranges, sometimes revealing the slopes, but mostly obscuring them, perhaps protecting them from the evil eyes of us humans.
Whatever nature may be thinking, I have no complaints. For me, any trace of melancholy, the stress of the relentless summer heat, is washed away into oblivion. The air now appears lighter, slightly fresher. And, as I glance through those mountain ranges from my balcony, there seems to be a certain hope in that green – as if the rain has given every living thing another chance to begin.
Have they changed the mountains? Or perhaps changed something in me?
Until the next monsoon arrives. 😊
If you enjoy such content, I invite you to subscribe to the blog.
