The British first started operating a met office high up on a hill near Trivandrum. The purpose was to keep an eye on the sea stretched to India’s west. With uncanny regularity, sharp on the first or second day of June, an immense black pillar was then found approaching the coast from far off. Telegrams were sent to every corner predicting the exact time of invasion-- by Monsoon. This was little less than an oracle, because, in India, monsoon used to determine the destiny of the Nation from bleached past.
Here Monsoon so effortlessly turns the mundane into the magical. And here it rains with such ferocity, and for so long a time, that it gets an independent identity, inseparable from any Indian perspective. Here Monsoon has turned into a culture, into floods and famines, into joys and tears, into commerce and arson, into a myth that lives a sensual, physical life.