Sawan, the month of clouds and rains, of thunder and lightning used to be, not in the so distant a past, the harbinger of joy both physical and emotional after a long spell of scorching heat in summer. Its arrival was awaited eagerly by villagers and city dwellers alike.

Water, as we all know, is crucial to life. ‘Water has green feet’ elder Punjabis would tell you. The metaphorical significance is obvious. Where ever water sets its ‘foot’, there is growth, an unmistakable sign of life. “No Sawan downpour every year,” says Madho Lal Hussain. So if there were no rains at the start of the month as expected because it could be rainless at times due to the vagaries of nature, all kinds of rituals, religious and non-religious, were performed, invoking the heavenly powers to send the watery gift to the earth.

Two of the rituals were intriguingly interesting. Children would gather and come out in the streets with their beautiful dolls made of cloth. Someone would bring a match-box or a flaming wood. Children would pile up their dolls, setting them on fire. The moment smoke was in the air, the children would burst out singing in chorus: `Wass way minha kalya, asan guddi gudda sarya’ (Pour yourself out you black cloud, we have burnt our dolls). People would feel assured that the offerings of burnt dolls, the dearest playthings of children, would move the nature and send the rains. The ritual perhaps has its origins in our ancient Dravidian past, pointing to a mysterious link between nature and children.

Other ritual which is rare now, performed by adults was full of fun and hilarious to the point of being a public nuisance. Men singed by unbearable heat carrying buckets and other pots would go berserk and pour water quite unexpectedly at the other men they came across in the streets and alleys, throwing them off balance and making the on-lookers burst out laughing. The ‘victim’ shouting curses and abuses would create a scene, attracting a crowd that would become a part of the ritual with their amusingly interesting comments. Old men were special targets, deliciously selected. The older the better was the defining feature of the practice. Old men as is universally known, are edgy and jumpy. So the old men soaked and rattled as a result of a out of blue splash would go mad with rage and would shout the choicest abuses at the ‘culprits’, making the whole thing absolutely hilarious for the crowd. Some of them even would try to run after the ‘culprits’ to teach them a lesson with their walking sticks. Such was the tolerance level that everything was done and taken in good humour, hoping that the ritual would bring the much wanted rains.

It is interesting to note the hidden connection between the two rituals. In the former the focus is on children while in the latter it is on old men. But what is common between children and old men? One may ask. Much if we look a little deeper. Children signify the sprouting of life and old men its fruition. They are two important points of the same spectrum. Other link that runs between the two rituals and has some mythical significance is the fact that children are like old men and old men are like children. Both are perceived to be innocent and powerless in need of help, reflecting in the cosmic context a human limitation which if accepted, turns into a virtue palatable to the powers beyond that control our destiny on this earth. So the rituals underpinned by the notions of innocence and helplessness transform a cry into a passionate appeal for divine intervention to the relief of humans.

When Sawan comes, it comes in the words of Baba Farid with ‘lightning and thunder’, sending a wave of joy across the land. Monsoon rains provide much needed water for free for the crops called ‘Sawani’. The livelihood of the farmers of ‘Barani’ (areas dependent on seasonal rains for its crops) entirely depends on the timely arrival of rains. Sawan with its downpour not only helps the crops grow, it also causes the rivers to rise and inundate a large area in Punjab, making the soil fertile with its alluvial deposits. That is why traditionally its arrival was celebrated with the frying of sweet smelling ’Pura’ (fried flat sweet bread). Sawan has a magical touch; it changes in days the landscape of Punjab beyond recognition. Green is all you see. Plains, mountains and deserts with a rapid growth of botanical life are countless shades of green peppered with flowers. That is why in our folk-lore Sawan is called’ the colourful month’ (sawan manh sarangra). An all encompassing luxurious growth cleanses the atmosphere and becomes a fresh source of additional oxygen.

It is not just the physical landscape that undergoes sudden changes; the psycho-emotional landscape too stands transformed. “Rain-drops make a joyful sound/-Sawan is upon us”. This is how Baba Guru Nanak welcomes the month. Rain and wind in an otherwise hot weather have an exhilarating effect on body and mind, inducing a mood full of musings, romantic and erotic. Such an ambiance has inspired poets and bards generation after generation to sing of Sawan. Lovers if together, feel compelled to be intimate, and if separated, long to be together. “Sawan with its rains has descended on Rohi (a desert along the border of Punjab and Rajasthan)/ turn your camel back now,” cries Khawaja Ghulam Farid, a great mystic/romantic poet of the 19th century. Sawan is “the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of dead land, mixing desire with memory” in our context. Celebration of fulfilled desire and memory of a lost love provide the stuff for the Sawan-related poetry. The month has a paradoxical nature; it can be a source of happiness as well as that of pain.

A folk story tells us: “Once upon a time a king asked his wise minister; which is the best month of year? Sawan, replied the minister. And which is the worst? The king asked. Sawan, replied the minister. How? The king said. If there is rain and wind blows, it is the best month. It exhilarates, explained the minister. But if there is rain and no wind, it is the worst month. It suffocates”.

With the introduction of modern life the rain-related rituals have gradually lost their relevance though superstition is still rife if such a phenomenon is considered to be a mumbo jumbo by illiterate modern mind. Surrounded by monstrous verticality of lifeless concrete we in the cities satiated with the graphically presented weather forecasts crib if the Sawan is rainless and cringe if it brings heavy rains, fearing the inundation of our streets and roads. The fact is that now we have less and less Sawan rains because of environmental changes. Exponential population growth and unbridled corporate greed are what makes the forests and trees disappear fast that attract rains. Both the factors are fast denuding the earth of what it conceals beneath and what it reveals at the surface. We must act and act now lest we are compelled like Nietzsche to declare: ‘Earth has a disease called man’. Sawan can surely heel the disease if we let it remain the month of rains. — soofi01@hotmail.com