Listen to me as one listens to the rain, / not attentive, not distracted,
Light footsteps, thin drizzle, / water that is air, air that is time
It’s raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
Air and water, words with no weight:
Footsteps of water across my eyes,
Listen to me as one listens to the rain...
— Octavio Paz
An obscure lane. Its only consoling prospect is that it winds along a number of waterbodies that flow in wavelets during summers and shimmer gorgeously in monsoon, giving Panchasayar its rather poetic name. In a concrete-dominated city of roasting days, frigid nights, indifferent streets, overflowing vats, such expanses of water are blessings. On several occasions during the year, they host some activity or the other – big and small. Chhat Puja is celebrated here with gusto, and fairs, complete with merry-go-rounds and Ferris wheels, draw local crowds in winters.
Still, the fields surrounding three of these verdant, anonymous ponds usually wither in the blazing sun nearly throughout the year. Thickly, silently, fallen branches and trunks, uprooted stumps of trees lie here and there — where sometimes young lovers and weary walkers roost. Green, brown, despairing shrubs grow at random. Of course, neighbourhood men, women and children bathe in the ponds. Sullen-faced guards hide from the sun in their cubbyholes. That’s life by the water; an old carpet, fraying at the edges.
Come rain and the same drape stirs itself up. As if life nudges at its stitches and darns and asks it to wake up. Very soon, the withering branches, shrubs, hedges, the towering eucalyptuses — all rise from their inertness. Big and small puddles take shape, as if overnight. The ponds brim with clear, swelling sheets of water. After nights of crazy downpours, mighty waves overflow the banks and flood the lane as well as the fields. Rickshaws, totos, cars and various carts navigate the waterlogged lane, splashing the water to the wrath of walkers.
The ponds brim with clear, swelling sheets of water
Against this green-grey landscape, life of another kind gathers. Or stretches out. The waterfronts are taken over by eager anglers on most Sundays and holidays. They assemble with their gear — hooks, fishing rods, lines, baits, reels, floats, sinkers, boxes and packets of various kinds, miscellaneous tools and with oodles of passion. Of course, they carry umbrellas. Black, red, multi-hued parasols bob up over the fishing crowd’s heads and, suddenly, an obscure lane knits together a rainbow quilt. People, not confident enough to try their luck in fishy territories, assemble all around the anglers. They don’t talk much; I suppose silence is an essential component of this sport, they just watch and occasionally offer wise counsel. Even stray passers-by — with looks of apparent disinterest — stop by the welcoming spectacle. Maybe they are hot-footing to the Peerless Hospital outdoor clinics — a rather grim exercise. Or, they are couriers, paperwallahs, autorickshaw-drivers, veggie-cart pushers. Wherever they head for, these shadows, sparkling waters, possibilities and hopes add some colours to their missions. They merge with the onlookers, spend some calming time along the wayside ponds and then hurry onward towards their sundry destinations. The fishing feast sometimes takes place at other times of the year as well, but never does it look so fetching, so picturesque.
Small snacks kiosks under the trees
Small snacks kiosks come up under the trees — mostly tea stalls. More enterprising vendors fry this and that, hoping that both the anglers and the watchers will be hungry at some point of time. Cars stop to drop anglers, some very early, and others a little late. They find their places among the assembly — concentration knitting their brow. People spread squares of newspapers or cloths to sit on, or simply find seats on flattish stones or tree stumps. All their attention — and that of the spectators — is to spot a nibble, a sudden swing, a pull, a dive, and finally the catch!
The misty monsoon days come alive with more exploits. In the fields nearby, local children and boys get together for football matches. They tumble in the earth, on the mud, run on nimble legs, their shots and kicks very often miss the goalposts and the ball charges out into the lane. They too draw cheering crowds. Even the puny night guards come out of their reverie to join the watchers.
High-rises with the perfect view
Narrow pathways crisscross these fields. Lonely cyclists avoid the players and pedal away. Down those same slender paths, now wet and muddy, walkers trudge by – alone, or in company, sometimes preoccupied, sometimes chattering.
A couple of corner plots down this same lane have been rescued from the expanding neglect. Flowering plants grow there, are gently tended to, and fill the air with the scent of seasons. With the arrival of monsoon, plants sprout, where tender white and other mild-hued flowers grow. Green shines like emeralds on the leaves and stalks. Often, robust downpours beat upon the blossoms and the plants droop; at other times, the rain plays a comforting song and the water gushes down in a stream to the nearby pool.
Another of the ponds
While homegrown anglers, athletes or gardeners rally around the waterbodies for assorted pursuits, the sky above changes shades time and again. When it pours, the people disperse, more umbrellas raise their heads and the footballers regularly miss their shots, blinded as they are in the rain. Then the rage of the clouds subsides, lightning and thunder move away to distant skies and a murmuring drizzle takes over. The water settles down to serene wrinkles. Drifting crowds return, tea-stalls spring back to brisk business, while bathers congregate on the opposite banks for a late wash.
Of course, the sun might just return soon. Panchasayar will again soak in golden-yellow brightness. The anonymous lane by the ponds will send its watchmen back to their shielding cubbyholes. But, nothing can interrupt the anglers, the players and the monsoon flowers – luminous as blessed spots in the rain.
Life, as we watch now, amazed, opens rare doors in and around Panchasayar during monsoons.