Where I live, July means monsoons. It’s the second-best part of the year, the first being airy June.
And this time of year, we’re always looking out for impromptu showers or disappointing thunder clouds. So we knew what to expect when we planned our trip to Thekkady. Plus, we had heard Kerala had had her monsoons earlier than the rest of India, and we were ready.
I left my not-so-new converse at home and wobbled on a pair of bathroom slippers that was too big for me, my brother rolled up his cargo pants, my father bought an extra umbrella, and my mother packed in more tissues than we would need to wipe a cereal-eating toddler.
We were all set.
When we started from home, the temperature was far from comforting. However, after we had driven for about three hours, the climate became more welcoming. The heat disappeared, dark clouds circled over coconut trees swaying along the highway, and once or twice we even heard a faint rumble.
We sped on and two more hours later, we slowed down into the town of Thekkady. It was past the typical lunch time, but we did find a restaurant.
When we ordered our food, the weather was perfect; it was cloudy with a cold breeze playing across the greenery on the sidewalk.
By the time our fish arrived, decked with slices of onions and tomatoes, a dash of cilantro, and a whiff of lemon juice, it had started to rain. Steady drops fell straight and heavy. And all of a sudden, the sky had darkened, the breeze was gone, and the streets calm.
But even as we ate, we glanced out through the glass windows only to see the rain receding. And about five minutes later, the sky had cleared, the clouds departed, and the sun made yet another brave attempt to shine. People pushed back the hoods of their jackets and some walked out from the small shops around.
When we left the restaurant, all that was left of the rain was the shiny gloss on the street.
And I understood the real meaning of monsoon in Kerala. It rains and it rains and it rains. And then, it stops—without a trace.
It rains when you want it, it rains when you don’t want it. And all you can do is sip spiced tea and enjoy the raindrops on roses.
I had always taken for granted the beauty of tea plantations. But I hadn’t been in one for about four years. We did visit an estate during my team trip to Darjeeling, but that was no proper estate. It was young and grew on plains!
But none of that mattered once we reached the top. That wasn’t our destination, but we had ridden through so much of lusciousness, we had to take a break. What’s more, we could smell the tea drifting through the leaves.
We rode higher and higher a mountain without ever knowing our heading. And all along the way, there were plenty of shrubs and long grass. We could also spot a few pepper plants and cardamom pods studded between the rocks. It was hard to say what we smelt, though, because there were so many different scents wafting through. Apart from the spices that went straight to our heads, there was also a strong lemony flavour in the air. And that combined with wet soil, it was some high we got.
How could one part of the world have so much natural beauty while the flip side parched? It seemed so unfair, yet it felt so good to stand there as if in a chroma key video shoot.
The Chaos Within 