For me, monsoon is a word that stirs up many fond memories of growing up in Kerala. Monsoon mornings bring an invigorating smell of damp earth, budding leaves, washed streets, knee-deep water, crisp air, and ominous clouds rolling across the sky. We woke up at dawn to the sounds of rain water gushing through the drains into the inner courtyard. The distinct delicate fragrance of burning sandalwood incense sticks mingled with the strong scent of lighted camphor cubes from our prayer room would envelop the whole house.

And just as the monsoon rains arrive in June, schools in Kerala would reopen for another new academic year. We trekked our way to school and back, with overturned umbrella and dripping wet skirts. By mid morning there would be a break in downpours. We would peek through the school windows wondering why it was not raining then, but would be pouring again when we left school. And the fun we had in the evenings making paper boats with old newspapers and floating them in the water drenched backyard. At supper often we enjoyed a bowl of warm kanji (rice soup) dotted with dollops of golden ghee (clarified butter) while monsoon rains fell relentlessly.




With monsoon comes a renewal of the life cycle of farming. In India planting and harvesting are largely dependent on seasons. Rainfall is crucial to the cultivation of rice and a drought meant famine. Cultivation begins with the onset of rainy season. When the seedlings are planted, they need more water to ensure a good harvest. The arrival of monsoon is considered as nothing less than a holy event and many rituals are observed to propitiate the gods of wind, rain and sunshine. In Kerala during the festival of Vishu in mid-April, farmers would mark the auspicious beginning of rice farming with a ritual called chaal (furrow).

When the monsoon is late, farmers in my home town perform a ritual, pleading to God to bring rainfall to the rice fields. They believe that rain is late since their village is home to a sinner. They would make a gigantic human form, Kodumpaavi (ultimate sinner), with rice straw and attach a long rope to it. Several people would pull it around the streets while others accompany them singing a song and pleading for rainfall -kodumpaavi chakaathe, koda mazza peyyathe – (oh God, the sinner is not dead and the rain is not falling. Please take him away and give us rain). And sure enough when it rains in a couple of days (as it always does in the tropics) the farmers firmly believe that their ritual brought the rains. ...more>