Ode to the 'aandhi'

I miss the rain. Not the Mumbai monsoon that has finally decided to honour us with its presence, but the quintessential summer storm.

Earlier this week, one evening, the thunder and lightning that hit this city reminded me of dust storms up North and I started longing for Delhi. I’m guessing the dust storm is a phenomenon one only finds in North India because besides Delhi, I have seen fantastic dust storms in Bikaner and Alwar too. The one that hit Bikaner when I was six was the most spectacular because it was followed by a hailstorm with hailstones as big as walnuts.

When we were kids these storms used to be described as aandhis. They are probably still called that now, but I think they have decreased in intensity. It is possible that this observation is tainted by my adult mind that is now immune to the grandeur of the aandhiin a way my mind was not when I was a child.

The best aandhis are the ones that strike at the height of summer. In the middle of a scorching afternoon when there’s no life on the street. When you think you will melt into nothingness if there is no relief.

The storm starts with an anticipatory stillness. It suddenly gets dark, as if twilight has fallen. There is a remote coolness in the air. Then you hear a door slam. Windows bang shut and the electricity goes off (as if it needs an excuse). Then you usually remember there are two lines full of laundry on the terrace and race to bring the clothes down.

The sky in the distance is thunderous black. The wind picks up. The garbage and dust on the street startswirling, and are carried in spirals higher and higher. Dust too swirls in from wherever it comes from (the Thar desert in Rajasthan is always blamed). The sand makes your eyes, ears and mouth gritty. Your teeth can feel its unpleasant crunch. You pluck the clothes off the line and ready to run downstairs when the first tentative, gentle drops fall down on you like a benediction. And the smell, the smell! That sweet smell of wet earth! You take in big gasps of that astringent smell. Clothes in hand, you run down the stairs as the big fat plops from the furious black cloud reach you.

And then the heavens open up! The sound of rain is like music to your ears. The temperature plummets. It becomes chilly. The gulmohar tree outside the house bends over under the assault of the rain. There’s more lightening and more thunder. It gradually fades away into the distance.

When the cloud passes over — and it can take a few minutes or a few hours depending on size of the cloud — it leaves in its wake clean, washed streets and nodding, glistening leaves and boughs; sometimes a flood.

But you don’t care. There’s a coolness in the air and you are dry, inside your house. The fine sand has also taken shelter there. The floor is gritty, table tops have a fine film of dust on them. But that’s small payment for the relief, the utter relief of the aandhi.

Now, you just make a cup of tea and sit in your balcony with some munchies and a book. Life is so good.