My monsoon survival story

Hindustan Times

27-07-2025

When I return to Mumbai, I find my bedcovers smelling musty. They remind me of a friend's complaint about her South American trip—how the rainforest's beauty came with mold creeping into everything: clothes, drawers, even her journals and her graph paper.
So too with Mumbai's rains. Inside, it's cozy; outside, a watery wonderland. Rain pelts off the coconut palms, a lone kite perches on the tree outside my window, and the garden below is a pool of brown water, a still life mirror of caramel and bronze. But like the rainforests, this paradise too has its price.
'I'm being eaten alive—it's got to be bed bugs,' my youngest groans. When the sun grudgingly appears, I haul our mattresses onto the ledge, only for her to wake with fresh bites by morning.
Mumbai monsoon greens.
The rain doesn't relent. Grey skies sag; a plane skids off the waterlogged runway. Yet the city marches on—autos plow through ankle-deep water, buses cough along their routes, and we join the clogged traffic, hunting for new mattresses and lights.
In the car, Anand Bakshi's lyrics fill the space between raindrops. It's the month of rains, the breeze creates a noise, in the much loved Savan ka Mahina song. These words seem written for this city, for this season. For this is Bambai, the place young Anand Prakash Bakshi once sold his schoolbooks to try and reach. At fifteen, he joined the navy, hoping Karachi would be a stepping stone; instead, he was nearly jailed for rebelling against the British. Pressured into the army, he finally made it to this city—only to knock on studio doors until his money ran out. Nagmein Kisse Kahaniyan, his son Rakesh's book, tells these stirring stories of stubborn dreams.
I came to the book through a happy circumstance. After raving to a friend about Rakesh's Director Diaries—a treasure trove of Bollywood behind-the-scenes stories—I learned she knew him. This is Mumbai's magic: where art and art lovers intersect casually. When Rakesh heard of my admiration, he sent me this book that he wrote on his father's life.
Grey Mumbai skies.
Now, as the rain continues to fall, Bakshi's songs play on: Main shayar toh nahin, Gaadi bula rahi hai, One two ka four, four two ka one, my name is Lakhan. The songs, the city, the savan ka mahina connect us in an inextricable way.
When we reach the Lohar Chawl market, it is still raining.
'I don't believe in umbrellas, Mama,' my daughter declares, her sister nodding. The girls walk happily through the drizzle. I think back to their younger selves - their shrieks of delight when I'd let them play in the rain, the risk of a cold and fever notwithstanding - for what greater pleasure can there be than dancing in the rain?
On the street outside, a sodden kitten with grey green eyes watches us from behind a Havells switchboard, her orange-and-white fur plastered to her skin.
Inside a light fittings store, there are chandeliers, standing lamps and wall lights in antique brass. But when the shopkeeper brings us white light spotlights, my daughter wrinkles her nose. 'Ugh Mama, tube light white is so hospital-y, please can we have warm white? '
Not a fan of white light myself, I promptly agree. Proper lighting isn't just functional, she writes; it affects how we feel, I recently read in Frida Ramstedt's excellent The Interior Design Handbook. She recommends five to seven light points in every room— bright overhead lights for illumination and layered light that shifts mood, draws attention to a painting, or creates a pool of comfort in a dark corner.
The day ends with no mattresses—just pendant lamps that create cosy reading corners to curl into. It's enough, I think. In a city where the rains seep into everything, these warm white lights keep the dampness and the grey skies at bay.
Dear Reader, what's your favourite monsoon survival ritual to help you lighten up when skies turn grey?
(Sonya Dutta Choudhury is a Mumbai-based journalist and the founder of Sonya's Book Box, a bespoke book service. Each week, she brings you specially curated books to give you an immersive understanding of people and places. If you have any reading recommendations or reading dilemmas, write to her at [e-mail]. The views expressed are personal)