SUMMER RAINS ARE FOR THATCHED ROOFS

SUMMER RAINS ARE FOR THATCHED ROOFS

by Fazal Rahman on Friday, April 27, 2012 at 11:16pm ·

Wanna know summer rain?
Live under a thatched roof
where it leaks in profusely.

26/04/2012

Summer rain always brought fond memories to me…memories of good old sad days. Living under the thatched roof where it leaked in profusely, it was kind of ‘catch-me-before-I- shatter’ challenge for us kids, with kitchen utensils to collect water, lest it drenched the cold mud floor. Father and mother, we could see, were worried extremely just as rain was in the air, because they were bothered about the precarious state of the less-than-moderate household, badly wanting renewed thatching which was not in their prospect to afford. But for us, with the ‘country urchins’ mindset, nothing seemed more exciting than being free to have an abandoned outing to the torrential downpour, which could put an end to the oppressive summer heat. Here again, boys had a clean edge over girls, who couldn’t even think of an out-door rain bath.

But summer rain held more prospects for us. Within the household itself, it created a kind of haven of domestic bliss. It invariably meant a gathering of all the family members to the safest corner within where the roof leaked least, probably some alley where the coconut fronds of the thatch were somewhat new. The close huddling invariably ended up in mother’s retelling some interesting stories or anecdotes out of the blue, as it were. Father was not very communicative, in the old ‘keep-aloof’ patriarchal fashion, though his love and affection for his brood was obvious for all of us to see. Mother, on the contrary, was an amazing treasure house stories, anecdotes and worldly wisdom, illiterate as she was. Moreover, she was, unlike father, not affected by any sort of skepticism, the kill-joy of a child’s world. All sort of wonderful creatures, like geniis, spirits, miracle-performing god men, and heroes of folk legends formed part of her personal mythology. Plus, she came from a renowned ancient family which could truly boast of participation in movements that decided the fate of the country. Ancestors from those worthy times often came alive in her stories. While it was raining hail and storm outside, we kids felt protected in the Noah’s ark of her wonderful tales. As it approached the meager lunch time and to go to sleep, we felt sorry to part with our wonder world. I would secretly conspire with my immediate elder sister, the ‘little big-sister’, my special favorite, to conjure up a gentle genii to lull us into sleep.

Today I wonder if mother is still ready with her stories in the other world, where her listeners are yet to find entrance. I can see father, close by, fondly mock-berating her for the ‘nonsense superstitions’ she is cramming his kids with. I can see several of my play mates, drenched in summer rain, frolicking the vales of no return.

Today, watching the rain shattering against window panes from within my concrete jungle, I miss the thatched roof. I miss the vast expanse of landscapes where puddles of water in mud holes forms little ponds to frolic in at the slightest provocation of single heavy rain, my fellow urchins to turn the clean water into a mess, … my good old sad days.

Thatched roofs are where you know rain.