Monsoon and the Malady: The Heavy Weight of My Soul

“Tansen could gather dark clouds and bring rain from them only by singing songs”, one of my uncles told when I was in primary school. I am a person who is sceptical and doubtful about the things I don’t know properly; and I always try to be rational about facts. So back then, I did not believe my uncle and had an enormous amount of suspicion about the historicity of his comment on Tansen. As time passed, and I learnt to open up my mind and consciousness by slowly consuming high-quality education over many years, I realised that my uncle, maybe, was not wrong. Tansen (originally Ramtanu Panday), a pioneer of Hindustani Classical,¹ was famous as one of the nine jewels of Emperor Akbar’s court. There are many legends around him, the most popular being his ability to induce rain by performing Megh Malhar (a pentatonic Hindustani monsoon raga). I still do not fully believe in those legends, but I also know that this universe contains sophisticated programming beyond my little comprehension. The quality and grandeur with which Indian Classical Music (both Hindustani and Carnatic) floats with its rich elements of precision, dedication, technicality and authenticity, it is not either impossible for it to make miracles happen.

The Biological Clock: The GDP of Rain

India is the Land of Rivers. If you think of an undivided India and take Bangladesh into account for a moment, you’ll see that rain is not only a boon for Bengal (West Bengal & Bangladesh), but it is also what forms the backbone of Bengal’s economy. West Bengal’s economy is uniquely sensitive to the ‘timing’ of the rain, and not just the ‘amount’. From July to September, the Southwest rain-bearing clouds contribute 75–85% of the total precipitation in West Bengal. That implies: the slightest drop in the quantity and even a small change in timing can hamper the state’s GDP to a high level. The state is the third-largest rice producer in India, and Kharif agriculture² heavily depends on the Monsoon system. So rain is the biological clock, and the meteorological necessity for the land to keep moving its wheel of economy.

After the summer’s burn, the rainy season starts with inspiration and hope. The gathering dark clouds cover the whole of the sky, and a thrilling chill wind blows all day restlessly, distributing its aroma sourced directly from the Bay of Bengal. I smell the salty air and the petrichor. A slight drop in temperature, variations in the atmospheric pressure and the increasing relative humidity forecast a period of adventure and musicality. There is no single Bengali who has not written a six-line poem in his / her life, while watching heavy pouring from the window of his / her classroom. Everyone becomes a poet. I had some good friends in my school and college. And they were extremely talented. But in my friend circle, we always secretly laughed at some of them. Because they wrote verses or drew pictures or sang songs only when it rained. Even the matter of their poems or songs used to be on the theme of rain. That’s why we secretly called them “Seasonal Poets”.

A Monsoon Culture & Inequality

The season of rain is sacred to the Bengali. From Kalidasa’s Meghduta³ to Rabindranath Tagore’s brilliant poems to the modern writers, they all have celebrated the beauty of the monsoon. When the raindrops fall from the canopy of some Bot (Banyan) or Ashwattha (Peepul), when the ponds become full to their throats with fresh water, when frogs enjoy practising their chorus endlessly, no difficult mind can stay warm. Monsoon adds its own colour and flavour to nature and the minds of people. While the largest metropolises of the world view heavy rainfall as an inconvenience, we celebrate it with numerous festivals like the Rath Yatra, Jhulan and Vadu. On rainy days, life feels excellent, smelling one-pot warmth of Khichuri paired with Illish Mach Vaja (fried Hilsa fish). If it’s an off day at the office or school, the scent of hot rice mixed with Illish oil seems more romantic, more aromatic. I don’t know which culture on this earth offers that level of delicacy. Bengalis are excessively foodie, and they all would agree with me that their mothers try to experiment with whatever recipe comes to their minds. Dads surely enjoy those dishes most, but always criticise moms with false complaints, saying, “Ototao valo hoyni, aro valo hote parto” (didn’t quite hit the mark, it could’ve been a lot better).

So, has the rain never brought any trouble? Are the fishermen, who keep fighting all day and night with the unceasing rain, thunder and exceptionally strong-adult tides of the sea, all happy? Does the mother living in the remotest village of Bengal, whose house has been completely washed away by the fierce Ganga, feel the same? Think for yourself. The father, who barely manages to live hand to mouth, whose work is at risk due to the nonstop rain, do you think he can afford to buy Queen of Fish (Hilsa) every day for his children? I believe that every circumstance of our world, each changing season bring some joy and sorrow at the same time. In fact, they are just the two sides of the same coin; if you inhale bliss, you cannot pass by the pain. It is the vulgar ignorance of our civilisation, the ruthless mentality of our economy, and the myopic vision of our leaders that we cannot protect our own people. It is our core failure that the policy-makers cannot provide the lowest means by which the marginal community survives, pushing them further towards socio-economic vulnerability.

Malady of the Soul

No doubt Bengal recharges itself with the benefits of rain, but it also produces a certain sense of melancholy inside me. My own mind feels like a damp paper — soft, wavy, and impossible to write on. My agony, my rejections from closed ones, heartbreaks and regrets seem saturated and amplified. Although the rain outside creates a melody of love, I feel my personal ambitions slipping away day by day. That melodious rain sound put me in an enclosure with my own disappointments. Life is a half-built structure of a city, I doubt. Sometimes, I feel that the monsoon isn’t a season of love and romance, actually. Because it feels more like a state of paresthesia, where the heavy, humid air of Howrah feels like an everlasting internal fever. Life goes on, no matter what. Even with the heavy weight of my heart, it is also true that the jhomjhom sound of rain works as an effective white noise. This is the period when I get some room for retrospection, because all other physical appointments get cancelled. And beginning an emotional audit is necessary even once a year. Do you believe that this malady of monsoon is the raw material of wisdom? For so many years, I’ve grown up with this tension between my own sorrow and the beauty monsoon brings. The constant striking of rain, the sudden striking of lightning, give some moments to stand, some tranquil sceneries to enjoy and some precious thoughts to re-live again. One may simply call it lyadh⁴. But I prefer to call it a time of rejuvenation. I may feel the load of sadness, but it also prepares me to tackle them. This is in my language, is Pluvial Biophilia,⁵ which is inbuilt in our DNA. So to conclude my short meditation on monsoon, I offer you two distinct ways of approaching life. Way 01: either embrace beauty or sorrow, any one of them. Way 02: or, we can combine and try to find a fine-tuned rhythm between malady and the romance.

Melancholy is not a disease; it is a trait and proof of you being alive. Remember my uncle who taught me during my early school days? He is no more with us. But the point is that he prepared my childhood well by teaching me to ask valid questions. When was the last time you observed the darkening sky? When was the last time you allowed yourself to be saturated by the ‘truth’? I don’t know the answers. But I can confirm that Tansen will keep inspiring all of us, whether you’re in Nadia or in New York. Perhaps we all sing our own version of Megh Malhar. But I know for sure, when the rain will finally stop, I will be replenished, and not simply ‘wet’.

Author’s Note

1. I was fascinated to discover that there is a crater on the planet Mercury named after Tansen. It sits on a planet of extremes, much like the legend itself.
2. Kharif is high-moisture monsoon crops, primarily Aman Rice and Jute — sown during the first rains of June and harvested as the autumn light begins to thin in October.
3. An ancient Sanskrit masterpiece by Kalidasa, where a Yaksha (an exiled spirit) convinces a passing monsoon cloud to carry a message of agonising love across the vast Indian landscape to his distant wife.
4. A uniquely Bengali state of ‘soulful indolence.’ It is not mere laziness; it is a creative, philosophical languor where the body rests so the mind can wander. Think of it as the ‘sweetness of doing nothing’ but with a specifically monsoon-drenched, intellectual twist.
5. I combine the Latin pluvialis (about rain) with E.O. Wilson’s concept of Biophilia (the innate human bond with the living world). I think it describes the evolutionary, deep-coded necessity for the monsoon that defines a delta-dwelling civilisation.