Monsoon Metaphor

Indian literature is ripe with references to the Monsoon. It seems that every author who experiences the long months of drought followed by the gush of rain that falls in bucket loads for two months sees some allegory to life and its predicaments. Some see it as a kind of baptism, the cleansing of the sins of the world. Others see it more cynically, connecting the monsoon to man’s penchant to desire what we do not have, only to be drowned upon its realization. A few see it as a reminder of the circle of life, as well of the circle that mankind travels in Buddhist philosophy on the way to Nirvana, a climate karma. The religious see their God or Gods crying, or peeing, or offering up retribution for sins or salvation from suffering.

I see it as annoying.

I needed the metaphor of the monsoon. I came to India in no small part because I needed a change. A radical readjustment. To “wash away” something, not sins per say, but the obstacles and petty fights I had with the universe. Wash away the stress of never having enough money, of a house we loved and hated, of commute and weight and work and worry of life unlived.

The monsoon, and India, changed little of this. We still stress about money, though in a different way, as we seem to make enough, but everyone else wants a cut. We are still tired, still deal with hurdles of life, it is just that the obstacles are different. Obstacles like, you know, the damn monsoon.

Like so much of India, the monsoon is both a blessing and a horror. Difficulties persist, but I am reminded afresh that there is little we can’t handle eventually. I craved change, and got it, and shockingly little changed. The circle of life continues, though I pine for my circle of friends back home. The rain is terrible, but the mist and the clouds that hover beneath the porch of our mountainside are breathtaking.

The monsoon came, and I was not changed. And that was a bit of a revelation.

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About the Author

I moved to India. I mean, why the hell not, right?