Monsoons

Natasha Mundkur ('19)

I can recall the water pecking my skin as if it were only yesterday. I was 6 years old, my tan golden skin was beaten, worn from the blistering bright confidence of the sun.  My ashen hair was caked with the wispy dirt awakened from our chappals slapping the ground as we chased the street rats and mangy dogs. We only wanted to be their friends, but they wanted to be anywhere but near us. They would never forget how they lost the hairs on their tail.

I would wait for them. Jotsna and “the girl who always wore braids” were my best friends and we were an inseparable trio. We would wait anxiously for the sun, for the blistering heat to begin the day’s play. I would reach for my mother’s sack and find our favorite game BINGO. I was never really good at bingo. I was honestly never really good at anything that didn’t provide me with the satisfaction of a trophy. I needed something gold and shiny that gave me the sense of accomplishment and abbreviated happiness. I was a materialistic kid back then. I took from society well, but when it came to BINGO nothing mattered more than the company of my friends; friends I would never see and have never seen since. Sometimes when we would play BINGO, we would mix the words around to create our own new version of the game.

“What about NIBGO?”

“NIBGO sounds dumb. What about BIGNO?”
“Im going to give that a “Big no” you got any other ideas?”
“Yea, how about a knuckle sandwich?”

“Natuuuu!”

The sweet honey of my Nani’s voice reminds me of everything innocent about my summers in India. But that day, there was a sense of urgency, of caution. My Nani could always feel when the storm was coming. She always said that when the three hairs on the back of neck stood up, the storm was 5 miles away. I never believed anything short of the fact that my grandmother was somehow a prophet. That was the first and last time I didn’t listen to all-mighty wise one, Nani.

Our game was ruined, the pieces nowhere to be found and the BINGO board resembled no silly arrangement of words our eyes could find. Before we could blink twice, our clothes were floating in the vicious wind, the clouds darkened in the shape of a gaping mouth that could consume us if we didn’t run.

 “Quick, hurry, it’s coming.”

But we were unmoved. We waited, anticipated, our desire to feel the rain was calculated. We looked at each other in mutual disbelief believing that we weren’t waiting for the rain. She was waiting for us.

“Each raindrop is the kiss of our ancestors.” The girl with the braids always had a way with words. I immediately though of my Annu who left the earth as quickly as I entered it. I had a special connection with a man I had never seen, but felt the strength in his presence and soul around me. I hope he could hear me, feel me, and watch me dance as the water kissed my skin. I shed a tear that faded in the drowning pour of raindrops. We danced as if were were ceremonial maidens, swimming in the flooded streets and existing harmoniously in the circle of life. We had no power, no entertainment except for ourselves, our friends and the rain. That was innate beauty of the monsoon. The monsoon was our confession, our pure personhood exposed for its beauty and flaws. We could dance unapologetically and dream shamelessly. We could be whoever we wanted to be in the rain. And in that moment, we were free spirits.  

Natasha Mundkur, of Louisville, Ky., is a senior McConnell Scholar at the University of Louisville, where she studies political science and marketing.