Rain, resilience cast a spell
Petrichor is the word used to describe the pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.
Late on Tuesday night, as I returned to Chandigarh after a week, it was heartening to get a whiff of this aroma. There were streaks of lightning in the sky, but in the darkness, it was difficult to make out if it was the rain-laden nimbus clouds that had covered the sky.
It was confirmed only when the rumblings in the cloud was capped by rain drops beating down with a workman-like consistency, promising to put a balm on worries over environmental depredations taking place. The much-awaited guest had arrived in the City Beautiful to provide a welcome break from the heat and dust of summer.
I am no Alexander Frater who came all the way from London to India to travel with the monsoon, right from its onset in Kerala to Cherrapunji in North-East, documenting the glory of this grand meteorological phenomenon, to make a documentary for the BBC.
But the rain had been following me during the week— in far away Nashik in Maharashtra from where the river Godavari or Dakshin Ganga originates and then in Mumbai. It was only befitting that it should complete the circuit by drenching a city eagerly awaiting its arrival. The falling of tree branches and snapping of power supply is sure to follow and I wonder if this rainy season, I will get to hear the strange whistling sound that I once heard in the evening with a duststorm settling in. But with the trees and streets awash and a delightful fragrant breeze, getting wet is something one wouldn’t mind, at least not with the first spell of rain.
Living in Chandigarh can be an advantage. Environmentally, it is among the greenest and cleanest cities of the country and also among those that have managed to stay off limits for subversive elements.
It was not before I visited the memorial for former Punjab Chief Minister Beant Singh in Sector 42 that the threat of lurking danger dawned on me. That visit too was accidental as I had gone to see the Chhath festival in the adjacent lake.
This part of the country has borne the brunt of terrorism with attacks taking place at Pathankot and Gurdaspur. Earlier also, militancy had threatened to rob the place of its verve and vitality. The wounds have healed with time but the scars remain, surfacing from time to time, like when Supercop KPS Gill passed away or at the time of observance of the Bluestar anniversary on June 6.
Having lived and worked here for some time, it was only natural that I should find myself standing in front of another memorial to India’s great resilience — the Hotel Taj at the Gateway of India in Mumbai, where the 26/11 attack took place in 2008. One tower of the Taj, damaged in the attack, remains covered till date. Two armoured police cars and stengun-wielding security personnel, their muzzle pointing towards the hotel, are positioned right outside, shielded by a canopy giving out the details of Lions Club, District 323,
I found myself seated inside the Leopold Cafe, where the terrorists had first attacked in 2008, spraying bullets that killed four people. Inside, you had Bob Marley and Harley Davidson posters adorning the walls and a vibrant atmosphere. I had read about the place in Shantaram, a novel by Gregory David Roberts, that described wonderfully the life in Mumbai, revolving around gangsters, and this cafe was a central meeting point for the protagonists.
Offered a corner seat, I nibbled at my butter toast and masala omelette, washed down with draught beer. It was this idyllic setting that was attacked so that its life blood could ebb away.
Two corners of the country, one common feature — get on with life, come what may. Life is meant to be lived and mindless acts of violence can’t numb the vigour of a nation-state.
Sitting alone, I raised a toast in silence.
