rain

We were picked up by a taxi service; our driver's name was Raju, and when I asked about traffic lights and whether or not anyone pays attention to them, he grinned at me. No English, he said, and then sped through an intersection, swerving slightly to avoid the truck crossing our path who had the right of way.

Thankfully, I slept for about half an hour of the two hour ride to Lonavala, because Raju's driving did not improve. It would seem that there is some sort of unwritten code here that involves a lot of horn honking and light flashing. Judging by the fact that we spent most of our time on the right side of the road in stead of the left, regardless of whether or not we were passing anyone, extra points were being awarded for driving on the wrong side.

The day dawned slowly under a heavy, grey sky, mountains shrouded in layers of mist silhouetted against the pale light. We reached the base just as it began to rain in earnest.

This is the fourth month of the rains; it has been raining non-stop for two weeks now, and only breaks when the air hangs heavy and wet, waiting for the next downpour. Breathing, it feels like there's a damp cloth held over your nose and mouth. This much water has lent an amazing fecundity to this place. The stone pathways are slick with moss and impossibly green grass grows thickly out of concrete walls and on tin roofs. Everywhere is the sound of birds and crickets and frogs and always there is the sound of water.

We have been welcomed warmly , introduced to too many people with names I despair of remembering. The work we will be doing remains a mystery; the rains have put a stop to much of what we might have done. But there is chai three times a day, drunk carefully from handle-less metal cups. There is rice at every meal, fragrant with cinnamon and bursting with flavours I have no name for.

And always there is rain.