The Bad Bawrsha: Author Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar on celebrating the rain and being resilient with its devastation in Jharkhand

Close by, I hear a Karam celebration. The tenacious rain has not been able to dampen the zeal of those celebrating the festival. Human tenacity often trumps the onslaught of the elements. This year though, it has been so severe that the rains do not seem joyful anymore.

I love the rain. I wonder if it could have contributed to my fascination for this weather. I was born in April, soon after the Bangla nawbo bawrsho, more than four decades ago. Ideally, the weather at the time should have been hot, since my part of the world had already stepped into summer. But no, it was cool. It was a rainy April morning. Since circumstances are supposed to show their effects on a person’s life, I assume, the rain at the time of my birth decided that I would enjoy drizzles and downpours for the rest of my life.

And I do. Not that I like getting drenched but I love watching the rain. I love watching raindrops sliding down glass panes. I love watching raindrops glide along salver-like colocasia leaves. I love the sound of rain, I love walking in the rain, holding an umbrella over my head. As a child, I loved cycling through puddles, parting the water, creating waves and a ripping sound. I love to watch Hindi film songs picturising the rain — Aishwarya Rai dancing to Barso re megha (Guru); Zeenat Aman swinging in Mera lakhon ka sawan jaaye (Roti Kapda Aur Makaan); Akshaye Khanna and Sonali Bendre struggling to meet each other in Sawan barse tarse dil (Dahek); Amitabh Bachchan and Moushumi Chatterjee in suit and sari without a care in the rain in Rimjhim gire sawan (Manzil).

I have grown up surrounded by hills. I adore the green, rain-washed vista after a shower. I have more place in my heart for a rainy day than a sunny or whatever day. Rain, then winter, then everything else. I am at peace when it rains outside at night and I am tucked in bed. I feel everything is alright and nothing bad can touch me. But then, that is my privilege speaking.

Where I work, I have seen the havoc my favourite weather is capable of bringing. It makes me question my own position. The place where I am right now is just next to a major river. There is a dam built on the river, a multipurpose dam. Apparently, 80 or more villages were submerged when this dam was built. People lost their agricul- tural pastures, houses, places of worship — everything that connected them to the land, they lost it all. It is said that not all of them have been compensated for their loss. They were rehabilitated to Punarwas colonies, miles away from where they were born. Every year, in July and August, as the rains ar- rive, villages along the dam are submerged. People are rescued and housed in schools or anganwadis. Each year, these displaced visthaapit people protest outside the local dam office and go on hunger strike.

This year, in July, when the rains were at their peak, we conducted medical camps in several villages; diarrhoea is endemic this time of the year. We saw mud-plastered brick houses submerged, while residents lay in cots in those water-logged floors.

One such day, on a field visit, my own ve- hicle was trapped in slush. On another oc- casion, we had to send a beneficiary to a camp but, that morning we learnt their house had collapsed in the rain. We won- dered what was worse — that we could not achieve our target or that the target’s house had collapsed.

I find no pleasure in my favourite season anymore. When it rains at night, clouds of anxiety hover over me. Invariably, I think that something bad is about to happen.

This year, the rains have touched the haves and the have-nots alike. While the privileged have resources to tide over their loss, the poor seldom get compensated.

Yet, as I mentioned, the tenacity of the human will often trumps the onslaught of the elements. Kash flowers have started blooming, their graceful white inflorescence indicate the end of bawrsha and the arrival of hemawnto (early winter); it’s just that the bawrsha is still here. Goddess Durga is sup- posed to arrive this year on an elephant; a symbol of prosperity and good rainfall. But I wonder what ‘good rainfall’ means.

Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar lives, works and writes in Chandil, Jharkhand. Views are personal