Dhaka street in the rain, from 1999 |
The Buriganga, Dhaka in monsoon time, 1999 |
The only time I recall any trouble for our expeditions was for arriving after dark, or returning home wet. In the cold of Sydney winters it can take most of half an hour to be substantially soaked: the nature of fine drizzle. I’d sneak in the door shivering, attempting to avoid my father who never understood the impossibility of paying attention to a triviality like the weather until it was all too late.
It’s good to be an adult, to arrive at the front door as I did last week, utterly soaked after walking through the streets of Dhaka in a monsoon downpour, without having to sneak past my father. In the monsoon season there’s a choice: find a skerrick of awning and stand sardine-crammed with all the others waiting for the rain to stop, or giving in to it, accepting you’re wet and continuing on your way. The latter option becomes all the more tempting when, before you find the nearest shelter you’re already half-drenched, which in the monsoon takes most of half a minute.
And while the sensible ones take shelter the going gets fast, no longer having to zigzag through the Dhaka crowds; the streets are yours, the bucketing warm water releasing the toils of a day at work, the noise of the city, the day to day trifles. At the end is a shower, a towel, a change of clothes and cup of coffee, but for now it’s just you and the rain; in the city monsoon there’s a striking solitude to be had, of you alone amongst ten million others.
‘What is monsoon?’ my mother asked over the phone line from Sydney . ‘It’s rain, lots and lots of rain.’ But it’s so much more than that.
Ploughing at the start of the monsoon |
Hatiyan market, Lenga Bazar, with just a hint of rain |
The locals were surprised how often I would brave the rain, but it’s not surprising since I am talking of the short holidays from Sydney, when each Hatiya minute was priceless and putting off a visit to a friend’s place unthinkable; or a trip through the mangroves to the beach! ‘I like how if you have a plan it gets done,’ a friend once told me, which came as a surprise because I always felt a bit disorganised and spontaneous; but he was correct regarding the monsoon. ‘You can’t worry about a bit of rain,’ I told them, and sometimes I had to coax them from under their shelters. ‘Don’t worry, I have a superpower to make it stop’; and of course they wanted to see that. So did I. We’d start out and occasionally it did stop which impressed nobody more than me; it was Paul the octopus style, although the European mollusc is much more successful than I ever was; and when it didn’t work I’d blame them for not allowing me to concentrate properly on the sky. That would humour them all the more.
Monsoon rice fields |
In the pauses, when the sun streams through the clouds and steam rises from the road, you can really consider the glare of the greenery, the great renewal and growth. And at night, on those lucky nights when the moon is full, well there is just nothing like its reflection on the sea of the rice fields, even more so for the island moon of deep Hatiyan villages, where there is no electricity to defeat its brilliance. There in the silvery light, nearly as bright as day, under the fifty million stars and meteors, you know, this is how the ancients knew the night to be.
In Australia the monsoon is a news item. ‘The monsoon has broken in India ,’ newsreaders announce. It’s one of the few seasonal phenomena worldwide that’s considered newsworthy there; even the start of the ‘wet season’ in northern Australia is not reported in such a way. It was hard when I heard it, the announcement of monsoon, when I was not here to enjoy it in person; although usually by mid-monsoon I was thankfully on the way.
Rice fields of Hatiya |
Back in the city the rickshaw drivers guide their vehicles along where the road ought to be, somewhere under the water. You hope not to fall unexpectedly into a hole. Office workers jump awkwardly across puddles, sporadically dipping their business shoes where there is simply no other choice; street stalls employ whatever plastic sheeting they can find and others embrace the season, splash, dance and go silly in the nautical cityscape.
A dry spell in the Dhaka monsoon in 1999 |
So there you go, Mum, as far as my words can tell you, from Thiruvananthapuram to Thimpu, and as an essence in Bengal , that’s what the monsoon is: lots of rain and lots more than rain. But if you really want to know, you need to feel it, on the face, on the arms, in your squelching boots and sopping socks that drench even the very gaps between your toes.
From monsoon to fishing in the Bay of Bengal? Or chatting in Dhaka?
This article is also published in Star Magazine, here: Monsoon, a Feeling for Rain
Bangladesh Dreaming: Article Index for articles about Bangladesh
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