Is Good Writing Directly Proportional To The Arrival Of Monsoon?

To begin with, probably that’d be a big yes, for me at least. Apart from the fact that I have an immense tryst with the monsoon, it would be both wise and kind to make a mention that summers aren’t really on the disposable list, although most of the limelight would be hogged by mangoes and litchis. However, when it comes to writing, more specifically writing for the soul, monsoons have a richer ground. It somehow feels that my creative bones immerse themselves in a cool breeze that in turn coaxes my creative bones to be expressive, even more, perhaps to the zenith. 

For instance, at present, as I am penning this piece down, I can gaze at the tall, steady coconut trees, just outside my window sill and also acquaint myself with a new word in my writing. As of now, I was contemplating the word, ‘promiscuous’ that probably popped up from a recent movie of Satyajit Ray that I was watching. Quite clueless about how to fit it into my blog, I began pondering and looking for answers, only to be clueless again, yet each time I lift up my head and broaden my horizon counting on the blue sky and the green leaves, just recently soaked with water droplets, I find depth and solace, that perhaps even answers some of my unanswered quests. Who answers those questions? Who cares about these eerie striking thoughts that are never-ending? I know not...

The monsoon does perhaps, and even if it doesn’t, it certainly possesses the innate and ultra convincing ability to drive me into fetching my laptop and penning down all that strikes the mind. The mind begins drawing sketches from the grasslands of Savanna to the high altitude of Mount Everest, jostling through the dingy lanes of Varanasi, soaking via the salty waters of Juhu, and finally resting on my fingertips. No sooner does the mind begin painting imageries, the fingers begin taking charge and doesn’t know how to stop, rather when. 

Just the other day, when the mind began contemplating about the tribals that continue smiling and very rigidly holding onto their traditions even at a time when they are being evicted out of their own homeland, and also how they are literally looked down upon by the intelligentsia. Spotting a vague future ahead of them, and also having no inkling whether the kids would get a morsel of food the following day, they indulge in some form of ‘Carpe Diem’ ing, whereby they indulge only in the present moment, leaving worries of the haunting future. Virtual forms of blood oozes out from the mind, as it’s not really sure of how it must react. The fingers take the cue and begin penning it down, valiantly and as vividly as possible. Amid all this, the monsoon acts as the catalyst, it just urges to write and write more, as if there’s no end to this imaginary world. The fingers, backed by monsoon feel confident that their subtle imageries can be more vibrant and expressed better. They probably find refuge in Frost’s lines, ‘Miles to go, before I sleep, miles to go before I sleep...'