THE MONSOON ARRIVES
The weather has changed over recent weeks, the air feels heavy, the sky is leaden and Pop our bearer says that something called the monsoon is due. One evening the sky turns black, the kitehawks picket themselves down in the palm trees, the heavens open, and even I can tell that the monsoon has arrived.
I watch from the verandah as rivulets coursing between the stilts supporting our bungalow merge into streams, while the strange flickering and deep rumblings around the horizon come closer and closer. Suddenly the sky is torn in two by a colossal flash, my ears ring from the thunderous explosion, torrential rain streams through the palm leaves which form our verandah roof. First awed, then revelling in nature's fireworks display, I dance around the verandah, heedless of the leaks and yelling with joy even though I can't hear myself above the thunderclaps which have become almost continuous.
Mummy and Daddy come out just in time for the climax, a bluish-white pillar which momentarily links earth to seething sky before projecting a wall of thunder. “Yoo ********* ****” I yell in exhilaration before Daddy seizes me by the scruff of the neck and carries me off to bed.
As the bedroom door closes I hear them both laughing. Grown-ups are hard to fathom at times, I tell myself as I fall sound asleep, heedless of the cacophony outside.
Next instalment: Geriaviator (5) continues his memories of RAF Poona 1946 and meets a new friend in Arthat the mongoose.