Monsoon Clouds - 1. Rekha

 

 

 

Chapter 1: The First Monsoon

1.1 The Day of Results

It was the last Sunday of May, around 4 p.m. I was dressed in a blue long blouse and a matching blue pavada (lehenga) printed with large white daffodil flowers, pacing restlessly between the main door and the gate. From the kitchen, I could faintly hear my mother shouting, “If he enters the street, he will surely come home. There’s no use in you going back and forth like this!” She had forgotten, though, that she behaved the very same way whenever I was late from college.

Ignoring her words, I kept up my anxious march until my eyes finally caught sight of my father turning into our street. Instinctively, my gaze dropped to his hands—only then did I feel the weight in my chest ease. He carried what I had been waiting for, and his face, as always, was calm and smiling. Time slows to a crawl when you are waiting, and distances appear endless when you are watching.

I flung the gate wide open, rushed to him, clutched his hand, and walked him inside as though he might forget the way to his own home without me. I wasn’t even aware of what I was doing. As soon as he stepped into the hall, my mother appeared with a glass of water, scolding me for not helping her—even with something as small as fetching a glass. Such was the routine in our home.

Father settled himself on the floor and spread the newspaper wide. In those days, Intermediate board exam results were published in evening special editions of the newspaper—rare and in great demand. I hurried to fetch my hall ticket, though I had memorized my number. I didn’t want to take any chances. When I returned, ticket in hand, my father glanced at me silently, his eyes asking whether I wanted to check the results myself. Reading his unspoken question, I shook my head quickly—No.

He adjusted his spectacles and turned to the page where my group results were listed. Once again, his eyes met mine. I whispered, “Start with third division.” I wasn’t sure about my economics paper, and it could have pulled me down. He scanned the third division list carefully—twice—but my number wasn’t there. My body began to tremble. He remained calm, as always, and moved on to second division, reading number by number. My heart pounded harder, my hands shook, and my eyes stung with unshed tears. I wasn’t ready to face anything unexpected.

From the kitchen, mother kept herself busy with her chores, occasionally calling out, “What happened?” as though nothing unusual was going on.

The next moment, my world came alive when I heard Dad’s voice, louder than usual—
“You passed in First Division!”

For a second, I thought I was dreaming. My mind refused to believe it. Dad held both my shoulders firmly, looked into my eyes, and repeated it again and again until the truth sank in.

Mother came running from the kitchen, excitement bursting out of her as if I had just won a world title. My eyes overflowed with tears, goosebumps covered my skin, and all I wanted was to climb to the rooftop and shout my joy to the whole world. I ran all over the house, breathless, repeating again and again to Dad and Mom: “I passed in First Division! I passed in First Division!”

In Ravi’s room, I found him buried deep in solving physics problems. I shook him and repeated the news with all the energy I had. He looked up, gave me his usual calm smile, and said only, “Congrats.” As if I had cleared a small class test, not my board exams.

Mother soon appeared with a bowl of steaming kheer. Somewhere between her shouting from the kitchen and my running around the house, she had prepared it—sweet, delicious, and perfectly timed. That’s how mothers are. They know exactly what their children need, often before we ourselves do. My mother was, and always will be, my Super Mom.

It took a while for me to come down from my wonderland of First Division. At last, I sat with the newspaper again. Dad had already circled my number with a blue pen, knowing I would want to see it myself. Parents have a gift—that quiet intuition to anticipate their children’s needs. When my own eyes confirmed the number, line by line against my hall ticket, a calm joy settled over me.

Then I remembered the numbers of my friends I had scribbled on the back of my last exam question paper. I wanted to check their results too. But the paper was nowhere near my books. My instincts told me whom to ask.

“Mom, did you see my last day’s question paper? I kept it here!” I shouted from my room.

Her reply came instantly, sharp and sure: “You left it on the table. I kept it inside the first book on your shelf. Look there.”

As always, she was right. I found it where she said and rushed back to the hall. One by one, I checked the numbers—some friends had made it to First Division as expected, others had slipped unexpectedly to Third Division, and a few were missing altogether.

My excitement boiled over again. I dialed the landline to call my best friend, Sandhya. (Back then, mobile phones were the pets of the rich, while a landline itself was a matter of pride for a middle-class family in the colony.)

The moment I heard her “Hello”, I shouted at the top of my voice, loud enough for half the city to hear—
“I passed in First Division!”

Her reply came back with the same thrill, equally loud—
“Me tooooo!”

I jumped in delight, clutching the receiver, imagining her doing the exact same thing on the other side. I asked her to pass the phone to her parents. When they came on the line, I shared the news, and they replied warmly, “Congrats!” At home, my parents echoed the same, and for a few moments, joy connected both families across the crackling landline.

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1.2 The World at Home

My father, Mr. Srinivas Rao, worked in the Accounts section of Southern Railways. He was tall sharp features—six feet—with a fair complexion, and it was from him that I inherited my complexion. Always calm and humble, he spoke to everyone with warmth and friendliness. He helped whenever he could, never hurting anyone, and never crossing the boundaries of home and office. His world was simple—family, work, and little joys. In his free time, he loved listening to the radio (so different from the FM chatter of today), reading newspapers, and tending to the garden. Coming from an agricultural background, caring for plants came naturally to him.

My mother, Mrs. Laxmi, was a traditional homemaker. For her, family was everything. Her happiness was bound to ours—she never sought any of her own. She always focused on fulfilling our needs, never thinking about herself. Over time, she even began to dislike the foods we loved the most, just from cooking them endlessly for us. Movies at the theatre were rare—four tickets were too much for our monthly budget, and she often returned with a headache from the noise. She managed with a fixed ration of sarees for the entire year, saving them for festivals or special occasions.

She was our home’s Finance Minister, balancing everything within the tightest of budgets, saving for emergencies, and never taking loans. Though she had studied up to Matriculation, her knowledge of the world was vast. To us, she was the first Guru—our teacher, mentor, philosopher, and guide. She was the best mother, and to me, all mothers in the world are the best.

My brother Ravi was two years younger than me. He had just completed his 10th exams. Books were his universe—he was deeply studious and had secured the 8th rank at the state level. Since the 8th standard, he had set his heart on IIT, and everything in his life revolved around that dream. School, coaching center, and home with his books—this was his triangle.

He had very few friends, only those who shared his dedication. To Ravi, playing on the ground was a sin, and TV, movies, or other entertainments were distractions to be avoided. These were all self-imposed restrictions—our parents never forced them on him. He had been inspired by one of our distant cousins who studied at IIT, settled in the US, and earned in dollars. Whenever that cousin visited India, he was treated like royalty in our community. Ravi wanted the same path, and my parents, proud of his ambition, supported him in every way they could.

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1.3 Becoming  Rekha

I don’t remember much of my early childhood, except playing with my mother and listening to her stories about how Indian girls and women should live. But one day is still fresh in my mind — the summer vacation of my 8th class, when I was 13.

It was around 3 p.m. My mother was asleep, and I went to the bathroom. Suddenly, I noticed something unusual. My body began shivering and sweating, and I didn’t understand what was happening. Scared, I shouted for my mother. She rushed in, her saree pallu slipping unnoticed, and saw me standing in the corner, crying, with blood on the floor. She looked calm, like a student who already knew all the answers in an exam. She consoled me, saying not to worry, that everything would be fine. But I was still trembling against the bathroom wall, crying as though I had committed some unknown mistake in life — without realizing it was simply the absorption of part of Indra’s karmic sin.

Mother left for a moment and returned with a long cloth. She tucked one end into my pavada, wrapped it around my back, passed it under my right arm, and brought it over my left shoulder. Only then did I realize how much my body had grown for my age. The whole process gave me a strange feeling, as if I had been reborn into someone entirely new. She carefully taught me how to adjust the cloth to keep myself covered, and then she called over the neighbors and my grandparents.

Soon, my uncle and grandmother arrived from the nearby village, bringing sweets and a mat woven from coconut leaves. They placed it in the corner of the hall, sprinkled rice on it, and spread an old blanket over it. Five married women held my hands as though I couldn’t walk on my own, and made me sit on the mat, blessing me by showering turmeric rice on my head. I had attended weddings and festivals before, but nothing like this.

My grandmother consulted the traditional calendar, discussing rituals with the elder women — all of it felt like Greek and Latin to me. They made turmeric paste and asked me to throw it at the wall nine times, without facing it. For the next nine days, I was not allowed to step out of the mat. Visitors came and went, blessing me as though I had crossed into a new world.

On the tenth day, I was given a traditional bath by the women. Shy but silent, I dressed in a grand peacock-blue silk pavada, with a matching blouse and green half-saree. My hair was plaited and decorated with jasmine flowers. They adorned me with bangles, a necklace, a long chain with a swan pendant. After days of rest and special food, I looked healthier and brighter. When people saw me dressed like that, they were surprised, as if seeing me for the first time. Taller, graceful, and glowing, I looked like a young bride. Photographs were taken, and for the first time, I noticed some boys staring at me shyly from a distance. I didn’t know why they looked at me that way, but it made me blush.

Coming from a traditional family, my father was very particular about my schooling. He enrolled me in a girls’ school, where I had no chance to meet boys except family members. Even for my Intermediate (+2), I studied in a girls’ college. Father would personally drop and pick me up every day, and if he was busy, my mother would escort me by auto. I was treated with utmost care, almost like a princess locked in her palace.

Meanwhile, I grew faster than other girls. My early maturity and physique made my parents more protective, never allowing me to go out except for college. Classmates often told me that many boys were curious about me, asking questions and passing comments. Some even teased my dark, lean friends, saying, “When will you become girls like Rekha?” I never really understood those remarks at the time.

Mother and grandmother gave me traditional beauty tips — herbal pastes, oils, and powders — which made my skin soft and fair, my hair long, thick, and smooth. With sharp eyes, perfect shape, and no need of beauty parlors, I became the talk of the town. Everyone was curious, whispering, “Who will be the lucky guy?”

That was me.
I am Rekha.

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Next: Monsoon Clouds - 2. When Dreams Began to Bloom