From Sand Dunes to Wet Monsoons

chillibreeze writer — Vandana Thambi

Need an editable PowerPoint of Monsoon Map of India

The sizzling scent of desert sand, salted and stir-fried under the scorching sun is loved and reminisced only by those who grew up amidst the dunes.

I must have been a month old when my parents moved to the United Arab Emirates. My first few years were lived in cool comfort without a trace of the desert heat coming anywhere near me. My legs, though, soon learned the art of running when no one is around and since then, the outdoors, however hot, have been my ultimate haven.

Even when grown-ups would run for cover under airy parasols, I remember racing with friends at mid-noon and winking at the sun, as if to say, “Turn on the heat”. Temperatures in the desert have known to soar above 48 degrees (celcius) but to us, the heat did not matter. We cared even lesser for our complexions. All we wanted was a little fun in the sun. We loved the roasted sand that crept between our toes and often paused to breathe in the burnt smell of tarred roads when a super fast BMW zipped by. We played until the heat died down and gave rise to a hazy sand storm. Blinded by the gritty sand in our eyes, our tired bodies would help carry each other to cool, air-conditioned homes, where iced orange juice awaited us in tall glasses.

Back in those days, showers were unheard of in the Middle East. I don’t remember looking up at the desert sky, expecting rain drops; though I remember looking up the word “rain” in my Oxford dictionary to pass a class test. We have seen the rain in movies and thought those were modern shower heads one get to buy at big bazaars. That’s the kind of understanding you reach after spending close to 16 years of your life not knowing how a rain drop actually feels like on your cheek.

After I turned 16, I learned that my ancestral roots are firmly grounded in the rich, fertile soil of Kerala, the land of rainy rendezvous. In my make-believe world, the trendy teenager I was, had come to believe that I was a descendant of the Desert Sultan and the Anglo-Saxon Queen. As far as I was concerned, I grew up in the desert and I speak impeccable English and that makes me anything but a daughter of the Keralite soil.

No amount of tantrums stopped my parents from dragging me to my homeland Kerala. Here I was, waiting to board a plane before I could fully recover from my identity-crisis, culture-shock and teen-schizophrenia all rolled into a new psychological terminology. I was beginning to hate Kerala even before the wheels of the aircraft had rolled up for take-off. Nothing, or should I say no one, prepared me for what I was about to witness in a land I had known only while in my mother’s womb.

Rain awaited me in Kerala. My first trip to this land was at the peak of the monsoon season. I could see water hitting the rounded windows of my plane seat and thought somebody was washing down the aircraft before passengers stepped out. Imagine my surprise at my own stupidity when I got off the plane and the first rain drop melted into my cheeks. I looked up, intending to meet Mr. Sunny Smile, eye-to-eye. Instead, I was smooched all over by Miss Cry-Baby who thoroughly enjoyed drenching me as much as I enjoyed bathing in the open, fully clothed.

Having never experienced the reverberation of raindrops, my senses were opening up to a whole new sensation. I groped through my memory cells for the rain scene in movies I had watched as a child, hoping to mimic the actors’ emotions at every downpour. I let go of the handbag of hatred I had carried all the way from the Middle East. I moved away from the large umbrella somebody tried to hold above my head. The complete absence of roasted sand stood compensated with the absolute presence of ravishing drizzles.

I lived the next ten years of my life in this land of monsoons. Though I landed here with every intention of using my return ticket, I ended up spilling masala tea all over it. I still speak impeccable English and even learned to make it heavily accented, just to please my Indian cousins who were struggling to master the American drawl. I no longer believe in my Arab ancestry though I really fancy the Anglo-Saxon element. I even learned to master my mother tongue, Malayalam, much to everyone’s disbelief and find it equally interesting as the Englishman’s lingo.

But I still muse over the scent of sizzling sand, especially when Indian summer soars, soil shrivels, plants wither and the heavens refuse to shower. The air, then, smells distinctly of sand dunes. I breathe in the sultry air with passionate greed because a month or two is all I get before sand dunes turn to wet monsoons!

Chillibreeze's disclaimer: This is a contributed article and was published on Chillibreeze in March, 2010. The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author(s) and do not reflect the views of Chillibreeze as a company. Chillibreeze has a strict anti-plagiarism policy. Please contact us to report any copyright issues related to this article. The relevance of the facts and figures cited (if any) could change after a period of time.

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—About our writer:

Vandana Thambi is an established corporate communications professional with 10 years of solid experience in crystallizing thoughts into well-poised words. She presently leads, creates, implements & oversees the communication programs of a multi-national company. She is the editor of 3 corporate magazines & has quality exposure in developing marketing collaterals, websites, profiles, annual reports, speeches, presentations etc. She is also the winner of the UNESCO best writer award in 1990 and frequently freelances for international clients.

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