I appreciated his rhyme but said, “Look at the sky my child. But I was shocked by the incongruity between our lived reality and what we teach our children. May I sing it for you?” “Why not, my child.” He started, “Rain, rain go away, come another day.” I loved my grandson’s innocent, high-pitched sing-song voice. “What has happened, Dadu?” I said, “I’m praying for the rain.” He replied, “Dadu, my Ma’am taught us a poem yesterday during our online class. Unable to make out what had come over me, my five-year-old grandson came out running. With my song I was aspiring to reach the heavens. And I sang with all the passion I could summon: Garaj baras pyasi dharti par phir paani de maula / Chidiyon ko daane, bachchon ko guddhaani de maula (Roar, thunder, pour and drench the parched earth, O Lord / Give birds some grains and children guddhani, O Lord) ( Gudhani is a sweet made from rice and jaggery). What could be a better way to bring rain hopes to life than to sing Megh Malhar? Trying to mimic Jagjit Singh I started singing Nida Fazli’s ghazal composed in Mian Ki Malhar. And hopes should be nurtured so that they may bloom. Even the drooping foliage appeared to be looking heavenward with incipient hope. But on that particular day, it was nowhere. The sun had been busy searing the earth till a day before. It was on 28th July that dark grey cumulonimbus clouds made their appearance. They stretch their vocal cords like the papiha. Then there are those like me who presume they can warble. Accomplished singers sing Raag Megh Malhar. The well-heeled and those who can, organise havanas. Hence, we perform many rituals to propitiate the Rain God. Well, the fact is that we can live with jumlas but not without rain. But contrary to this belief, the papiha’s song also turned out to be a jumla. In common folklore, the papiha’s song is believed to herald rain. Every day we heard the broken, repeated pee-pee-ah of the papiha (Common Hawk Cuckoo) rising to a crescendo. The thunder would turn out to be just a jumla, empty verbiage. But the lonely, loitering cumulus would end up being the election manifesto of a political party. Whenever a solitary cloud appeared, we expected the skies to open up. Waiting for RainsĪfter the sunrise every day, we would turn our gaze towards the azure above. But the rain enacting the disappearing trick was giving anxious moments to one and all. Punjab is a predominantly agrarian state that depends upon timely rains for good harvest. But what to talk of hundred, there was not even a single shower this time.
There is a proverb about Saawan in Punjabi: Saoni de sau minh (a hundred in the month of Saawan). We were already six days into the month of Saawan that began on 23 rd July.
His whimsicality evades factoring into any scientific model. To a believer, extreme weather events are examples of his moodiness. He can be bounteous where he ought to be parsimonious and vice versa. All predictions about the early onset of monsoon had fallen flat. Indian meteorologists had once again failed to gauge the mood of the Rain God Indra. The month of July arrived unaccompanied by rains this year.
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