Where Am I?

When I awoke this morning, I didn't think it too early, but the light filtering in through the curtains was a gray, dull color that signaled that the sun had not yet exerted its control over the morning sky. Upon exiting my bed and pulling back the first curtain, I learned that neither of my perceptions, as to the time and the color of the morning sky, was wrong. In fact, the sky was gray with clouds, and I could see the trees swaying in a slight wind. After completing rituals and having sat down to do some writing, I heard the gentle rumble of thunder and a gradually an increasing volume of white noise that signaled a gentle rainfall. As I looked into the yard below me, with its green grass, blooming flowers, the trees full of leaves, I could have thought that I was in Iowa--about two months hence. Only the yellow tint to the leaves of the trees counters the suggestion of an Iowa day in April. Had I concentrated my gaze on the trees rather than the lawn and surrounding flowers, I would have thought it October in Iowa. The rain continued and the thunder rumbled quietly in the background. I opened the window the enjoy some fresh air, but I didn't leave it open for long, as the wind was cool, and I know that once heat is lost inside our apartment, it isn't easily recaptured. 


This is the second day of overnight (spilling into early morning) rain that we've had the last two days here. Before this, the weather had been sunny and mild, perfect for our Seattle visitors (and me). I've asked my local friends if this is normal, and while they say it’s unusual, no one elucidated. By chance, however, in reading a chapter on a Rajasthani epic poem performer in William Dalrymple's Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern India, I came across this description of the setting of Dalyrmple's conversation with the epic performer: 

Now it was midmorning and we sat looking out at a very rare but highly auspicious event in Pabusar: clouds massing for the winter rains. Rarer still, a few drops were actually falling on the ground.  


"We call this rain the mowat," said Mohanji, smiling brightly. "Even a few drops are wonderful for the wheat and grain. One or two showers will give enough forage and fodder for the sheep and the goats until the monsoon. Four or five showers and even the cows will be happy."

Right now the cows should be happy, and I'm feeling right at home.