Samrudhdi Kerkar
Monsoon is the dearest season for everyone, especially for us who live in villages embraced by the lush forests of the Western Ghats.
I love observing the changing hues of the forest. It’s the start of her new transformation, when the forest stands on the threshold of monsoon. Rain feels like a brush that paints the earth with elixir, adding strokes of vitality and creation, transforming the entire landscape, turning plateaus and forests into heaven.
Before the murky clouds cover the sky, tiny harbingers of nature start scurrying here and there, carrying messages of rain even before it arrives.
Creatures like bees, wasps, butterflies, moths and birds begin preparing for the rains. Their rituals unfold quietly to the tune of nature. But the little termites are the first messengers that humans actually notice, making them realise the commencement of rain.
Dragonflies are seen under the open sky, hovering in swarms. Ants hurry, yet always in discipline, carrying their rice grain-like eggs, twice their size, in search of a safe new place for their younger ones. Seeing the hurry of ants reminds me of huddled humans eager to buy food grains, spices and other necessary materials from the Purumetache fest, preparing to face the rains for four months.
People who are used to the fast-paced city life might see the rain as a nuisance, arriving intrusively like an unsolicited guest, wetting clothes, bringing thunderstorms and cutting off electricity. The heat then becomes unbearable in the city. But in rural villages nestled by the Western Ghats, one can feel the embrace of cool mist without needing a fan or cooler.
Whenever I visit Huland village on the border of Goa and Karnataka, or the rural villages of Sattari and Canacona during monsoon, it always feels like stepping into another rhythm of life. One can witness unique traditional preparations for the rains unfolding in quiet grace, peaceful enough to unwind the soul and experience the real monsoon of Goa.
Here, humble mud houses wear golden grass costumes, covering them like armour against the season’s wild wind and rain. Around them stand intricate fences woven from sticks of local trees, each one like a rustic work of art shaped by patient hands. Bamboo supports rise in gardens, welcoming monsoon tubers, roots and climbing green vines to flourish in abundance.
In villages like Sattari and Sanguem, walls receive their yearly coat of red geru mud to prevent rainwater from seeping inside.
The traditional hand-laid clay tiles on sloped roofs guide the rain away, while droplets falling from the eaves create melodious music through the night. Heaps of golden grass lie stacked for the cattle. Wooden footbridges called sakav make a path over fiercely gushing streams.
Before the rains, dry tinder is tucked away in thatched huts called khop, waiting to warm homes on damp and misty days. For fuel, women prepare cow dung cakes and leave them to dry in the sun, an ancient ritual that keeps the kitchen fire alive during blackouts. An earthen stove, locally called chul, fills homes with smoky aromas, bringing stories alive in every simmering pot.
Here, power cuts do not seem to trouble people much, for they are accustomed to living in tune with nature and ancient wisdom. As night falls and electricity falters, a tiny kerosene chimney lamp glows softly, lighting up faces, memories and monsoon tales, bringing people together to share light along with moments.
And perhaps that is the true beauty of monsoon in these villages, not merely the rain itself, but the way it gently reconnects people with nature, tradition and with one another. In the rhythm of falling rain and the fragrance of wet earth, life feels slower, simpler and deeply alive.
