Of Heatstrokes, Watermelons And Summer Rains

Vernal rains…and they couldn’t come any better than last night’s. A few droplets in the evening didn’t promise the harvest to come. But it was such a relief.

But when the slanting sheets of thick, lusty drops began to come down, from the bulge of blue-dark clouds pregnant with the promise of cooling down the heat of our many frustrations, one thanked the heavens.

It was such brooding, sweltering months. One has lived in countries where mercury rose higher, but the past few months have been intolerable in Kerala.

We’ve experienced sunstroke and heatstroke.

We’ve experienced fatigue and dizziness. We’ve sweated from all pores.

We’ve fought in our offices; we picked up fights with spouses; honked the horn, irritated; beaten up kids for apparently no reason.

We’e queued up to buy watermelons from Tamil Nadu. Kerala’s climate and soil are too luxurious for the watermelons to grow. One has checked it out with a Tamil fruit vendor on the street.

Yeah, we indulge in the coziness of nature. Watermelons are grown in lands where sun is acrimonious, as a divine intervention.

Watermelons, not coconuts, should be Kerala’s official fruit. Green outside and red inside.

Cool to the eyes, but ruddy red of politics inside.
But why do we need these bloody watermelons? Kerala is His Own Country. Blessed, indulged.


He has blanketed this strip of land with lush green, tucked it between a stretch of ocean and rolling hills.

We are known worldwide for our smartness, intelligence, hard work. We can outdo an American in his Yanki-ness, a Brit in his English-ness, an African in his African-ness, an Arab in his Arab-ness.

We are a smart bunch of people. Proud, prudent and political.

Political…well, we are masters. We have doctrines. We have ideologies. We look at people down our nose. We shout slogans to the heavens. Democracy runs thick in our blood. Protests and hartals are entwined in our DNA.

We are ferociously conscious of our political, human and civil rights, but only till we cross our borders.

In a foreign land, we are more loyal to the rules of the land than the natives. We are an obedient people. Timid and goodie-goodie.

We send Cuba Mukundas abroad to make him break a sweat. Back in our land, he is a leader who shouldn’t work, but lead his followers in strikes and hartals, like the piper of Hamelin.

But God is merciful. He sent down rains last night to cool us off.

March, April and May are hot. But, last night’s summer rains were special.

One saw a young man, dressed well, leaning on the gates of a pub in the city, late in the night, and he was soaking in rain—drenched to his bones. One kept looking at him. He was drunk, but he was enjoying the thick rain, turning and throwing his head and hands in the air. He was talking to the rains. He was happy. Rainwater splashed on his face and ran down. He opened his mouth and swallowed a gulp or two. Lightning shone on his temples. Thunder echoed in his ears.

He walked into the night, tottering away, throwing his hands in the air. Enjoying the summer rains.

No, no slogans. He hummed a tune, unknown to this observer.

Summer rains!