SAMRUDHDI KERKAR
The monsoon has arrived early this year. According to the Indian Meteorological Department, rains have already swept across Goa—from Pernem in the north to Canacona in the south. Urban areas have been caught off guard. With pre-monsoon work still incomplete in many places, residents are left to deal with clogged drains, waterlogging, and disrupted routines.
Yet, while cities struggle, nature seems to rejoice. For the forest, the rain is a long-awaited relief. The scorching summer had pushed both people and wildlife to the edge, draining energy and making survival harder each day. But with the first showers, the forest responds instantly. The parched earth drinks greedily, and the canopy glistens with renewed life. It’s a dramatic transformation that occurs almost overnight.
But with the first showers, the forest responds instantly. The parched earth drinks greedily, and the canopy begins to glisten with renewed life. It’s a dramatic transformation that occurs almost overnight.
The lateritic plateaus, dry and cracked under the sun, suddenly bloom with a soft carpet of wild grasses— thought lost to the heat just days earlier. Tiny green blades emerge through the red soil, dancing in the cool breeze. It’s the forest’s silent celebration.
This untimely rain has left many puzzled. Is it a necessary disruption—or a welcome moment of cool relief after weeks of heat?
While the rain brings freshness, its early arrival also unsettles nature’s rhythm. Animals, birds, and insects accustomed to a predictable cycle now scramble to adapt. Their instincts signal it’s time to mate, lay eggs, and prepare for the season ahead.
Take, for instance, the Malabar gliding frog. This elusive amphibian is almost invisible during the dry months. But just a few days into the rains, it begins to appear magically in forested regions. One can spot the white foam nests hanging delicately over twigs—egg clutches carefully laid by females after mating. These nests sway with the breeze, promising new life in the days to come.
Within days, the forest is transformed. Foliage deepens into rich green, the air is heavy with petrichor, and birdsong echoes through the trees. A walk through this rejuvenated jungle offers moments of stillness—just leaves rustling and birds calling. One of the most familiar calls at monsoon’s onset is that of the common hawk-cuckoo, or “brainfever bird”. In local traditions, this cry signals farmers to ready their seeds for sowing. Even birds are part of the age-old agricultural rhythm tied to the rains.
