Dark brown is the river.
Golden is the sand.
It flows along for ever,
With trees on either hand.
Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating—
Where will all come home?
On goes the river
And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.
Away down the river,
A hundred miles or more,
Other little children
Shall bring my boats ashore.
The above poem from the 'Child's Garden of Verse' is one of my favourites, it used to be a part of
the school English text book as well!
The monsoon invariably brings with a sense of nostalgia. After the blazing hot summer months, so
deeply moving is the feel of splattering rain drops and the moist cool that they bring, it is almost
impossible to explain.
The memories of school days and rainy mornings. The building of islands out of mud. The sailing
of the paper boats. The acute child-like observation of the earthworms that made their appearance,
and slid about like harmless little snakes. The unexpected and joyous rainy-day holidays. My
childhood birthdays, which came around the time the monsoons were at the most vengeful. The
whistling winds, causing the tall Ashoka trees to bend against their will, laden with heavy moisture.
Such are my memories of the monsoon season, and so they will always remain.