We now have fire, flood and fog as our seasons

The plains, cracked and desiccated as any wasteland, would turn the country, brown, beige, tan and buff and gritty, and frogs buried themselves deep under the earth, where it was still damp. Some birds, of course, regaled you in the tinderbox temperature: deep from under shade, the common-hawk cuckoo would watch birders tramp about in the sun, and scream, ‘brain-fever, brain-fever, brain-fever’ which optimistically in Marathi has been rendered as paos-ala, paos-ala paos-ala (rain is coming, rain is coming, rain is coming). Shade came at a premium. Tempers would often flare and spark, as impatience grew and the flame blue skies were anxiously scanned as the season progressed.

And then came the season probably most looked forward to all over the country. Those living on the west coast got a ringside view of the approaching south-west monsoon – a lowering gunmetal horizon moving ever closer, preceded by silver showers of rain and skittish breezes before the big guns opened up with window-shaking rumbles of thunder and machine-gun like bullets of silver rain. Peacocks would go into paroxysms of ecstasy and, in the streets, children and their parents would dance. Flora, dry, drooping and withering away after the summer roast would perk up, don myriad shades of emerald and grow rampantly everywhere. Insect life thrived, buzzing, whining, humming, thrumming – providing baby birds with their daily doses of protein. The rain, would shower down, by and large, steadily and sensibly. Large mammals, like elephants, tigers and leopards, would soak happily, then shake themselves off in showers of spray.

Once the monsoon had bestowed its largesse and gracefully withdrew, another short interlude of hot sweltering weather followed, but wait, there was a gradual coolness in the air, early morning and in the evenings. Winter was on its way and gradually cardigans, windcheaters and shawls made their appearance. The air would be crisp as a salad brought out from the fridge, and in the northern parts, frost would crackle underfoot early morning – and cheeks would get rosy. Occasionally, a clean dove, grey fog would envelope the landscape and then suddenly, mid-morning lift, like a transfer being peeled revealing a glittering kaleidoscopic world beneath. Nights would be freezing, inviting huddles around bonfires and angeethis – but eyes would remain bright and sparkling.

Along the coasts, it would be just perfectly breezy and balmy – weather you wanted to last all your life – except that if it did you would not appreciate it as much!

And what do we have today? In summer, we have fire – lots of fire. Up in the hills and mountains, where one fled, for respite from the blast-furnace plains, there would be entire pine forests, crackling and exploding, flames racing through at a horrendous pace, driven by dragon winds. Tinderbox hill-stations perched precariously (and illegally) on slopes would be in danger of going up in flames. Smoke would wreathe the skies, making one hack and cough – so much for the fresh air one came rushing up here to enjoy.

And then came the turn of the monsoons to show what they could do: some parched places would remain cracked and dry, others receive their entire monsoon quota in the space of a single morning. Cities would go under, people left waving desperately from rooftops. Rivers would overflow and rage through cites and their suburbs, drowning everything in their path. In the hills, entire mountainsides would come roaring down in landslides taking everything before them, from temples to townships. Those rickety hill stations would now be in real danger of being swept down and buried under tons of gluey mud. The same desiccated brown plains would now turn into vast brown lakes. This was not the monsoon season anymore – this was flood season. Storms and cyclones on the coast would barrel inland flattening everything in their path, tidal surges would render vast areas of land saline and useless.

But, yes, the rains would eventually withdraw – and now insolently the first wisps of winter mist would suddenly appear, and quilt the ground early in the morning. And then you would realise, by the sandpapery feeling in your throat that this was no innocent, clean mist. It was abrasive and scratchy and made you cough. As the weeks went by it would thicken into a dirty, dense grey-brown fog blotting out the sun for weeks at a time. As seasonal affective disorder (SAD) settled on you, you now understood the plight of people in those countries where there was no sunlight for months at a time and only vodka as solace. You (and every animal, insect and bird) were now inhaling 20 packs of cigarettes every day.

And so, from once having summer, monsoons and winter (interluded by spring), each enjoyable in its own right, we now have fire, flood and fog as our seasons. Yes, certainly the climate has changed and all within the span of a single lifetime.