The summer this year has been the harshest in recent memory. The afternoon siesta helps to beat the heat and reset oneself. But an earthshaking dry thunder tosses me out of my mid-day nap. The weathermen had forecast pre-monsoon showers. Then we don’t really need forecasts to sense the rains are coming.
For centuries, the monsoon had kept its date with the Malabar coast. Our ancient calendars tell us the rains would come at Edavapathi, the middle of the Malayalam month of Edavam, which falls in the first week of June. An egg-carrying ant colony heads indoors and the little frog in the cellar croaks in anticipation. The umbrella companies know it too as their advertisements get heavy rotation on TV channels.
Malabar was once synonymous with the monsoon. There was nothing here — life, culture or cuisine — that was somehow not related to the rains. The monsoon in Malabar was all about harnessing the biodynamics of nature at its best. The story goes that Mangattachan, the minister of the Zamorin of Kozhikode, advised the King against gifting black pepper saplings to the Portuguese to carry home. He feared once Europeans started cultivating pepper, the demand for the “black gold” would plummet resulting in a loss of trade. King Zamorin famously replied; “They can only carry the saplings, not our Thiruvathira Njattuvela (the 14-day mid-monsoon period, a perfect time to plant new seedlings).
