decided that the monsoon had eluded the city, the skies opened up. The hot bajjis, the colourful umbrellas, the slushy puddles and that romantic song,

decided that the monsoon had eluded the city, the skies opened up. The hot bajjis, the colourful umbrellas, the slushy puddles and that romantic song, ANAND SANKAR goes about finding the monsoon markers

PHOTO: MURALI KUMAR K.

UP ABOVE Chasing the monsoon is great fun

“Beautiful weather, isn’t it?” I was asked recently. The constant pitter-patter of raindrops formed the background with the sky a carpet of deep bluish grey, end to end. Yes, the city is finally in the grip of the mon soon.

It is officially the silly season of the year. It begins with longing looks at the blue sky while stuck in one of our city’s traffic nightmares. The first drops are welcomed with a big sigh of relief. But finally there is despair, because sometimes it just doesn’t stop. A reliable prediction of the monsoon has always been a mirage and to add to that now you have the uncertainties that the theory of climate change brings.

The monsoon can be considered an integral part of our life. There is a definite mode that we get into this season, and it is very much a part of culture. Ask any Mumbaikar or a Kolkatan, or the more closer home Mangalorean and people of Malnad, you are sure to get enough monsoon stories. So, what is Bangalore’s monsoon mode?

After much head scratching I put the question to a fellow-journalist who’s been around the city much longer. “Sweaters,” she laughed. “It is a very Bangalore thing. How on earth is it a protection? I don’t know. But we seem to put it on at the first sign of showers.”

She further pointed out that the city does not seem to have an umbrella culture. “No one carries umbrellas. People prefer to wait it out.”

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The bit about the city being a pensioner’s paradise has always been taken a little too seriously by all its non-pensioners and it gets worse during the rainy season, felt a friend who handles human resources for an IT company. “The work culture has always been laid back here. And I have noticed here in the last few years, when the weather changes to gloomy, the last place people want to be is at work.”

He went on to add that viral fever and the common cold must definitely be a part of the city’s wet-season flavour. “We do lose a lot of man hours to those two factors in these months. "

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The city does share one trend in common with its counterparts across India — the infrastructures does take a beating. And navigating through Bangalore’s roads feels like playing minesweeper (a popular computer game) on a rather large board. Only when you do dip your tyre into that puddle will you find out whether an axle-breaker awaits underneath. On cue survival instinct has given our drivers the ability to swerve with notice of just mere fractions of seconds.

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Rainwear does not seem to be ‘in’ here but there was a time when the city was in the grip of transparent rain coats and umbrellas. Yes, umbrellas have evolved over the years. The grandfather umbrella, the folding umbrella, the one that folded even further to fit in a lady’s purse, the one that you could wear on your head, and finally the transparent one. It is quite a sight to see users of all ages conveniently forgetting that the umbrella is a shield from rain that is designed to be held overhead.

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In travel circles it is fashionable now to be seen “chasing the monsoon”. The Mumbaikar will swear by the Sahyadris and the Kolkatan will vouch for the Sunderbans. Bangaloreans have had to be content with Jog Falls, not exactly a getaway in the neighbourhood. But inveterate travellers have discovered spots in the city’s own backyard. Kalavaarahalli Betta might not ring a bell, but do Google it to find out what is in store.

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There is nothing that is better than just doing nothing on a rainy evening. And its even better if you dish out something on the lines of an aloo tikki or pav bhaji. Want something local? How about some Davanagere benne dosa? Or bisi bondas, potato or chilli? And top it all up with a tall glass of hot badam milk? Writing that leave application aren’t you? I’m sure you’re listening to the Mungaru Maley song “Anisitude yaako indu…” , which ushered in the monsoons, much before the evocatively gloomy skies set in.