I grew up in Kodagu, close to the River Cauvery-one of the holiest and most generous rivers in southern India. For most of the year, it flowed gently, almost shyly, past fields and homes. But with the arrival of the monsoon, it transformed. What was once a soft murmur turned into a mighty roar. The river swelled, flooding its banks, swallowing footpaths, and turning familiar landscapes into a world of swirling brown currents.
The adults grew anxious, keeping a close watch on the rising waters. I remember sandbags being stacked, neighbours gathering to speak in hushed tones, and frequent warnings: “Stay away from the edge.” But to us children, it was nothing short of magical. The drama of the flooded river surpassed any television show. We would watch the darkening skies and rising waters, thunder echoing through the hills like a drumroll before nature’s grand performance.
Despite the pouring rain, schools remained open-except during the official monsoon holidays. Interestingly, even though it rained for weeks, we rarely heard of landslides or landslips. The hills stood strong, wrapped in thick forests that held the soil together. The rivers ran clear, not choked with debris, as they often are today.
Looking back, the monsoon was more than a season. It was a celebration of nature’s resilience, of abundance, and of a life that taught us to embrace every downpour with grace. It is a memory of a time when we lived in harmony with nature.
Growing up, nature was my playground. I ran barefoot along slushy paths, watched earthworms wiggle through wet soil, and breathed in the damp air, rich with the scent of wild blooms and freshly ground coffee.
Yet, nature remained undisturbed. The forests drank in every drop, and the land breathed with the rain. There were no cracks in the earth, no fear, no devastation. Children walked to school through puddles, elders sipped hot coffee by the fireplace, and kitchens came alive with monsoon delicacies such as akkiotti, wild mushroom curry, bamboo shoots, maddpayasa, salted wild mangoes, jackfruit seeds, and many more. Those monsoons were part of our identity.
Life slowed down in those days. Power cuts were frequent, but no one complained. We lit candles, huddled together, and listened to stories passed down through generations. Monsoon wasn’t just a season,it was an experience. It shaped my senses, my memories, and my connection to home.
Even today, when the rains begin to fall and the scent of wet earth rises, I am transported back to those riverside days – of laughter, lanterns, and unforgettable moments. Some days we cried, most days we laughed. We weren’t just going to school; we were learning life.
Now, sitting beside the same river where I was born, I watch the clouds drift across the sky-just like they used to. The birds still call, the mist still rolls in, and the earth, though scarred from recent years, seems to smile.
Those monsoons shaped not just our riversides, but also our spirit-to flow onward, come flood or sunshine. Even now, when rain drums gently on my roof, I close my eyes… and find myself once again crossing flooded roads, smiling.
By Kodandera Mamatha Subbaiah
