At 5.50pm, announced by deafening thunder-claps, the Monsoon finally rode into Cochin. Like those Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns with the 'man with no name' it blew the trees into a frenzy; it lashed down in a hanging curtain of mist as opaque as the hill fog of Darjeeling. In the coffee shop the waiters rushed to the windows, clapping and yelling and laughing, their customers forgotten amidst the hoo-haa. One waiter, emerging from the kitchen, glimpsed the magniloquent spectacle outside, and slamming his coffee-pot down onto the table, joined in the jubilation crying 'Ho! Ho! Ho!'
Women with bright sari's jiggy in the rain with a look of sublime happiness on their faces. The school children are dispatched home early. They carry the smiles of children who know school will be closed for the remainder of the week. Their smiles reach up to the skies, snatching at the rain, grasping at the wind, pulling it down with invisible ropes; beckoning the billows that skud in from the sea. The sea looks awesome; framed by a dark mass of purple cloud it seethes as if a boiling cauldron. I watch the darkness as it nears; the roar is deafening as the rain pelts the tin roof. I can barely hear my thoughts. I am happy. Back in the coffee shop there's a bustle of mops, buckets, plastic sheeting and old bedspreads. These are tucked into the gaps between the windows to stop them from leaking. It feels as if I am onboard a foundering ship; with the sea leaking in. Water is now lapping my slippers. I throw away my haughty self and help the waiters to seal off the problem areas. A wave of good-natured joviality washes over us as we work together to keep the coffee-shop afloat. Later we enjoy a drink on the house. We are saved.
