Meditations on Rain

If you enjoy doing something, rarely will it harm you. This philosophy of mine stems from a fundamental truth: joy and harm seldom and often coexist.

Consider ice cream—a treat that many, including me, love to savour (been savouring it for the past 4 days now hahahahaha). While it brings joy, I have to admit that its consumption in excess can lead to adverse health effects.

However, this equation changes when natural elements are in question. Take the rain, for instance, a manifestation of nature's music- it is unlikely to harm you. It is a part of the natural world, a world to which you inherently belong. You are, after all, an extension of nature itself, just as nature is an extension of you. Rain, being very much nature's music, resonates with our inborn being. It connects us to the earth, tethering us back to our roots. When you stand, walk, or dance in the rain, you aren't just experiencing the weather; you are participating in a perpetual interaction between the sky and the earth. This interaction is symbiotic, nurturing, and fundamentally harmless.

First things first. Did you really expect me to write one entire writeup about rain without providing appropriate music? Well, I can, but I won't.

A small note about the beautiful painting in the video on the left beside Sawai ji's photograph- it is one of the paintings from the famous Rāgamāla painting series. This painting depicts the Rāga Megh Malhar [although the audio is of Miyan Malhar, not Megh Malhar]. In this painting one can see Radha and Krishna engaging in ubha-rati while the sakhi on the extreme left of the painting plays the pakhawaj (or marddala).

NOTE: This writeup was partly written while chatting up with Saranya, a beautiful human [I have the absolute honour of calling her a friend]. As she was going on and on about why I shouldn't be eating a tub of ice-cream, and getting wet in the rain just one day after recovering from fever, I was secretly attempting to just say anything and everything at random to make sense of why I did what I did, and a beautiful realisation hit. I kept writing, in a near trance state and then decided that it should go up on this blog [with a few more words and corrections, of course].

When it rains, I enjoy, because it feels like I am one with nature- especially in summers, when the rain brings relief. I strive to be like that rain. To be like the rain is to be a bringer of peace, calm and joy. It means showing up when needed most, offering support and care without expecting anything in return. It means pouring your love, even when the world is heated up with hate. It means being a calm presence in the storms of life (the irony!), providing a gentle touch that can make all the difference. [Ah, this touch- who better to explain than an instrumentalist? It is a very well known fact that we instrumentalists (strings especially- like violin, sitar and all) try and use one instrument throughout our life, for then the instrument learns to respond to our touch. The instrument grows up with us, becomes a part of us, a part of our being, a part of our soul and a part of our music.]

Now imagine the earth during summers, heated up by the sun, shooting flames—scorching and relentless. The air is thin with heat, and the ground radiates an almost unbearable warmth. Everything seems to pause under the brilliantly blazing sun, wilting and weary.

And then, suddenly, an overcast weather takes over the sky, blocking the sun, which was at its mightiest. The once relentless rays are now diffused through a blanket of clouds, and a collective sigh of relief is felt by all. The overpowering heat gives way to a cool, shadowed calm. People look up, hopeful and grateful; they sense the promise of rain in the air. (Ah, the perfect place in the audio, if you have played it and read at my pace!)

The first few droplets descend, hesitant but determined, and the earth responds with a sizzle as they make contact. The parched mother begins to drink in the moisture, greedily absorbing every drop into its soil. The drizzle gathers momentum, each drop joining forces with countless others, and soon a steady shower ensues. It does take a few moments for the earth to find its equilibrium, its balance—but oh, when it does come down to that—what peace!

The rain cascades, cooling everything it touches. The leaves, once dusty and drooping, now glisten with newfound life. The flowers lift their heads, vibrant and thankful, their colours more vivid than before. The air starts thickening with moisture, gets filled with the smell of petrichor, the intoxicating sign of earth meeting rain.

Aahh, to be like that rain! To descend upon the world with the ability to cool tempers, soothe worries, and revive spirits. To be a bringer of peace, calm, and joy, touching lives and hearts, making the world a little bit more bearable than what it was.

A small shower of rain, and the world comes to a halt. Bikers get off the road; pedestrians run to the nearest shelter; cars go slower. Oh, what better time to enjoy the city?

Ask me. I know.

The city transforms in the rain. The usual clamour of honking horns and chattering crowds is replaced by a gentle pitter-patter of raindrops hitting pavement, leaves, and rooftops [you can also equate it to the pitter-patter of the LP recording that you're listening to]. And as evening dawns, the streets glisten, reflecting the countless lights of the city, like jewels scattered on the ground.

The familiar streets now have a new character with this untimely rain, their busyness now replaced by soft pattering. The sidewalks, typically crowded with hurried footsteps, are now quiet. Shop windows glisten with raindrops, their displays ever more beautiful in the muted light. Oh, how I'd love for it to rain today.

TAKE A PAUSE. FINISH LISTENING TO THE SONG. Yes, you might not understand Hindustani Classical, consider this your introduction to the genre. A short note on the raaga: this rāga is considered to be the rain-rāga. You can hear the thunder, lightning, drizzling, and everything that there is to be experienced in rain, inside this rāga, but for that listening-training is required, but if you still manage to hear it, YOU'RE IN!

Anyways, please complete listening to this rendition by one of the legends of the Hindustani Classical, Pt. Sawai Gandharv and don't leave it half-way. We'll listen to an abhanga (Marathi bhajan) based on the same raaga by Nagesh Adgaonkar ji from here on.

Birds sing from places unseen, the geese run loose, and the dogs—my faithful companions, find shelter under awnings or parked cars to save themselves, their eyes following me with curiosity, and others, the more adventurous ones, like me, get to the road, giving me company, like always.

There's that one butterfly you'll still see wandering even in the rain, going from flower to flower. The drops, like huge cannonballs for the little creature, seem to not bother it much. Oh, what it must feel like, to be the butterfly. Watching the butterfly flit from bloom to bloom, I think about how we, human beings, one of the most intelligent beings on the face of earth, often miss out on such experiences. We've constructed barriers, both physical and emotional, to shield ourselves from discomfort and uncertainty, which is exactly what the summer rains signify. We seek the illusion of control and predictability, retreating into the cocoons of our routines and technology, forgetting that growth often comes from being uncomfortable with the unpredictable.

The butterfly comes out of its cocoon to enjoy this beautiful world, and here we humans get into ours when nature tries to embrace us with its loving arms. We human beings, although very much a part of nature, have learned to keep ourselves apart from our own mother nature. Don't mistake the butterfly to be dumb, though. It will get to safety when it rains intolerably. It understands the balance.

We know it too; we haven't forgotten—we just haven't tried to understand.

Be carefree, not careless.

My advice to all the people wanting to get wet in the rain would be this--- go, and enjoy the rains. Have your fill. Once there's an inner voice that says, "It's enough", listen to it. In the life that we are living today, we have forgotten how to listen to this inner voice; maybe the rains will help you learn the art?

Our lives are a constant juggling act, filled with responsibilities, aspirations, and the endless tracking of all the progress. In this chase, we sometimes lose sight of the fundamental truths that nature so effortlessly demonstrates. We build walls around ourselves, both literally and figuratively. We equate busyness with productivity, and noise with significance, forgetting that there is much wisdom in silence and stillness. It's about knowing when to be bold and when to retreat, when to speak and when to listen.

While writing this, when I put up the video of Sawai Gandharv ji's Miyan Malhar, I got reminded of a few lines penned by Kabisūrjya Bal̥adeba Ratha in the Kiśoracandrananda Campu's 25th song (Ma barṇna) while looking at the painting of Radha and Krishna and the sakhis:

ମନ୍ଦାର ବନ ସେ ବନରସାଚକ୍ରେ ରଚିଲା ସୂନବରଷା,

ରସିଲେ ସର୍ବ ଗନ୍ଧର୍ବମାନେ ଗାନେ,

ମାତି ତାଣ୍ଡବ ରଚିଲେ ଦେବଦାସିଏ ସାବଧାନେ,

ମର୍ଦ୍ଦଳ ଘୋଷ ହେଲା ତ୍ରିଦଶ ମଣ୍ଡଳେ ସବୁସ୍ଥାନେ,

ମୁକତ ପ୍ରାୟ ହେଲା ତ୍ରିଲୋକ-ମନସୁମ୍ଳାନ କଲେ ପାତକ...

Transliteration:

mandāra bana se banarasācakre racilā sūnabaraṣā,

rasile sarba gandharbamāne gāne,

māti tāṇḍaba racile debadāsie sābadhāne,

marddaḻa ghoṣa helā tridaśa maṇḍaḻe sabusthāne,

mukata prāya helā triloka- manasumḻāna kale pātaka...

Translation:

As it rained flowers, the forested land on Earth seemed as if it were heaven,

The Gandhabas sang, drunk with love,

The Debadāsis danced fervently, performing tāṇḍaba carefully,

The Marddaḻas roared in the heavens,

Sins from the minds of all the three realms were released and cleared...

It's crucial to find moments of stillness in the turmoil that we are living in, to reconnect with our surroundings, and to appreciate the joys that life offers, simple or complex. This might mean taking a walk in the rain, feeling the earth beneath our feet, or simply sitting quietly and observing the world around us. This mindfulness allows us to build deeper connections with ourselves, and others.

Rain, often seen as a disruption, is actually an indication and farmān to slow down, for it's regal in nature. Just interchange the last two letters and rain becomes a queen, i.e., Rani. [Did I just write this entire thing so that I could crack this joke? You'll never know.]

So, the next time it rains, don’t rush for cover. One of my fondest memories of a friend is one where we were out roaming around in the city, and it rained: what would have been a normal scooty ride, became a memory. Went for Vipassana meditation last year around August, to Dehradun; it rained all the time, and boy, wasn't that just the best time ever!

If you're already out, and it starts raining, let the raindrops kiss your skin, and allow yourself to be enveloped by the magic of the moment. [Now, don't force yourself to get wet in the rain after reading this blog. You might not be comfortable with the rain, and that'll cause you to fall sick.]

In case you're still wondering about the geese that were roaming on the road while it rained in my writeup, well, here's proof:

One final song in Miyan Malhar, a ghazal written by Farhat Shehzad, popularised by the one and only Mehdi Hasan: