Growing up in India, with temperatures in my hometown often hitting over 40 degrees in springtime, it was very hard to be subjected to school-book poetry by western authors talking about the beauty of a golden May day. It never made sense. The sun would be shining bright and hot at 6.55 a.m. as we made our way to school and it would be sweltering hot as we would bike our way back home with sweat trickling down our necks and backs. We would be lucky if we had power by the time we got home to turn on the fans and water coolers. Though power failures were routine, they still had the ability to catch us by surprise at all hours, sometimes at 4 a.m. as we dreamed of not-very-golden May days. The first signal would be the sudden silence of stalled fans and coolers. The second sign would be the disgruntled noises (a little bit of swearing from my brothers’ room) and of course then came the sweat trickling down the neck and onto the back. If none of the initial warnings would wake us up, the sweat would. I would hear the struggle over which of the boys was going to start the manual generator. Starting the old generator itself made you sweat gallons (not that it would always start, despite the labour involved). While that was being sorted out, others would dash out to the terrace, vying for the spots on folding beds that would be the last to get the rays of the early morning sun. The droning of mosquitoes and flaying of arms to avoid them didn’t make our early morning sleep on the terrace any more comfortable, but believe me it was much better than the heat inside. Sprinkling our sheets with water would bring some relief. Heaven help us if we had to go to a summer wedding. It was pointless for women to wear heavy finery or men to don suits and ties in such heat. The bride and groom would be sweltering in their wedding outfits and jewellery. Makeup would melt away. You just couldn’t dress up for a wedding. You tried to stay inside during the day and outside in the evenings. Afternoons were best spent chatting or napping or doing low-energy activities because any kind of exertion made you feel even warmer. Air conditioning helped, if you were fortunate to have it (and the power stayed on). The Indian teachers, in direct contrast to the western poets, would make us think and write about the rain. All our dreams would be unleashed then. Essays and poems would include the music of the thunder, the dark burgeoning clouds, the birds chirping, lightening striking and finally the climax of pouring rain. When rain would finally come, there was elation. We were allowed to play in it, make paper boats and float them in puddles, dance to the tune of thunder. Indian movies, lyricists, poets — they all romanticized rain. I have cousins from California who go all crazy over our Vancouver rain when they visit us. A drizzly morning starts with them exclaiming about the beautiful day, with its gentle patter of rain and smell of wet earth. The sight of our mountains nestled in the clouds prompts envy from our out-of-country visitors. But we complain. These days, rain rarely brings a feeling of joy to our household. We complain about the miserable day as we hunt for umbrellas forgotten at the office or school the day before. We complain as we dress up for an evening out: It is pointless for me to try to wear my sari or for my daughter to wear her lehnga because both outfits (unless inelegantly lifted) would be sweeping the wet parking lot. The washed-out soccer games and aborted walks are no fun either. Most of our planned outings hinge on it being a nice (meaning dry) day. The poetry about golden sunny days of spring has started to make sense now. I craved rain when I didn’t see a cloud for weeks and months. Now I crave the sun when I don’t see it for days and weeks. Rain can get me down the same way the sun used to get me down. In India, my spirits would begin to droop as the end of April approached; I could feel the loss of winter and could see the harsh summer coming. In October I would be buoyant. It is totally the reverse now. October and shorter days can give me that foreboding feeling and March and April are totally exciting. Isn’t it funny how context is everything.
