In Singapore, most days are a patchwork of sun, rain, and clouds. It was the same in Malaysia, where the rains could build into storms, then disappear. It’s hot and humid. I’m in the tropics, what do I expect?
I miss the monsoon in India, when rains meant continuous downpours for days on end, sometimes flooding my small-town street so I didn’t have to go to school. We ate hot rice porridge and fried snacks, and I could curl with a book and read, or write in my journal, or maybe even scribble a letter or two.
I remember also the rains in my grandma’s village in hinterland India, where the rice fields turned green and welcomed a host of white cranes, and the air felt heavy with moisture and the call of bull-frogs.
Once in a while, like today, when it rains in Singapore, I try and bring back those days of nostalgia, when rain wasn’t an everyday affair. I trawl through my notebooks and once I find a sentence that thrums with energy, I use it as a prompt and fill pages of a new notebook. I picture in my head the jungle in the village where fronds of bamboo bowed and dripped rain into the pond below.
In reality, that bamboo jungle is long gone, but the village remains. In my imagination, that throng of bamboos would sway in the rain for as long as I’m able to write.
Is there a season that puts you in the mood to read, or write? What memories of your childhood and youth are tied up with the seasons?