Eclipsed by the rain

Everyone complains about the British weather. Rains all the time, we moan. If you ask me, it doesn’t rain here, it only leaks. Nevertheless, it has an uncanny knack for preventing the sighting of eclipses, spoiling a game of cricket …

If you want to see real rain, come to tropical Kerala. There the downpour lasts days. It is intense, full of drama. People dare not step out without an umbrella unless they want holes on their head. They rather sit on an easy chair with a cup of tea and banana chips to watch the rain. The water gushes down from gutters built into roofs, splashes the gravel covered ground, presses down the trees, frightens the birds into silence. The sound of water meeting the roof tiles and the hard cemented courtyards – like the crescendo of wedding drums marking the solemn exchange of garlands. Only, the drum beat lasts through the day, the night, and the days following. Spontaneous rivulets coming together in little streams rush to find the lowest level, cascade down streets, down fields, under culverts, until they meet the roiling river, the uprooted trees, all travelling at a terrific pace taking some of the earth with it, colouring the water the brown of a milky cup of tea, incessant, unstoppable. It roars like a lion and sings like a koel – real rain.