Features: Magazine | Literary Review | Life | Metro Plus | Open Page | Education Plus | Book Review | Business | SciTech | NXg | Friday Review | Cinema Plus | Young World | Property Plus | Quest |

On the swings of Sawan

The rainy month of sawan is said to be so intoxicated with love that it has been compared to a ‘mast’ elephant. Kalidas’s “Meghdoot” would have us believe that lovers separated by long distances send their messages throu gh the rain clouds. Some women longing for their absent sweet-hearts swing away their blues. Hence the popularity of swinging fairs which, alas, are now more or less a thing of the past.

The swings of Teej that come up in Delhi are just a token reminder of the olden days, when rope jhoolas were put in courtyards and on trees so that women and girls could swing away the masti induced by sawan. Of course some just did it for instant thrills on a dull afternoon after they were through with household chores.

One remembers the jhoolas that used to be hung from the tallest trees in the compound of a Rai Sahib. A family of retainers was in charge of the swings. There were three sisters among them who, along with their mother, Ramkali, and the cook, Chhoti, pushed the swings with great gusto. Enjoying themselves on the swings were the three daughters of Rai Sahib, their mother and the residents of a nearby haveli. To get the real feel of sawan however one has to visit the Red Fort.

The Sawan-Bhadon pavilion of the fort is bereft of swings from which Moghul princess used to swing. But sawan being such a romantic month still casts its spell, not only over the Red Fort but elsewhere too. And when sawan comes can the lapwing (tatteri) be far behind?

Misnamed the brain fever bird because of its shrill short cry, it has been the subject of much comment down the centuries. Why should this rain bird, which is said to have a hole in its throat, live on a terrace overgrown with the monsoon grass that has a tendency to cling to houses? People sleeping under swirling fans and sweating it out on a hot oppressive nights (without the benefit of desert coolers and ACs) wake up with a start on hearing its cry and murmur, “Rain, rain”. The belief is that it can only slake its parched throat with raindrops, so whenever it needs a drink of water it calls out to the skies and the clouds of sawan oblige. Of course, an ornithologist would have a different story to tell, but to keep up pretences one would like to think the rain bird really has fever on its brain and needs the precious drops from heaven to calm it down.

This not-so-little bird is like the breeze that springs up at will and a free agent at that. It sits on the grass and feeds on insects, perches on high tress and sails across the skies whether the monsoon clouds are there or not. But the question is why does it return to the terrace? Perhaps it’s a good hiding place. Or could be that it lays its eggs there and has to return to them again and again? Is that the reason why it sits on the TV antenna first and preens itself? Does it use this ploy to outwit crows and other predators?

Whatever it is, when one sees the tatteri in the swinging grass on the terrace one thinks of rain, overcast skies and pleasant breezes that make the monsoon months come alive with a thousand and one delights despite water-logged roads, erratic power supply, leaking roofs, seepage and peeling plaster. Birds do exercise a certain charm on us, more so those that come out at night with the moon and stars. But the tatteri is a day and night phenomenon and to climb the distant terrace for a solution might kill a mystery in an otherwise humdrum existence.

Printer friendly page  
Send this article to Friends by E-Mail