Baarish ka pani

Rain is such an ineffective and poverty-stricken word to describe the phenomenon which is Rainy Season in Liberia. 

It doesn't rain in Liberia, it pours. It's as if the skies have merely turned open a 'nalka' and, let it pour. 

But if we have to employ rain, here it is: 

Dear friends who are not here and might like to hear about how much it rains here,

It rains, rains, rains, pours, rains, rains, drizzles, drips, then pours and then rains again. One can't imagine the sky can hold so much water. Sometimes it feels like the neighbours upstairs just forgot to close the faucet. In between the pours, it drips, like a child ignorantly letting a soaking wet sponge drip all over the floor. A sponge which has an infinite amount of water. There is almost no respite for the incessant rain, no time for laundry to dry, because the rain flashes on the clothesline by lashings of water and high winds since we are so close to the ocean. Nothing really dries because everything is wet. The air is thick and wet. It's cool under the fan but merely stretching your hand to reach for the cup of rain-inspired tea makes you sweat. More water! The sky and ocean is gray and white, almost no horizon to see. It really sounds busy, all that rain. If it didn't have anything to fall on, it would seem less busy and mighty. But it has so much to fall on: zinc roofs, pavements, wet earth, puddles, umbrellas, roofs of our cars,  and our heads. It's really important and busy. And then shockingly, it gives itself a day's break and it's hot and dry! That sun's scolding warmth is welcome. But then it starts all over again, for weeks! 

Yesterday I cooked a bubbling pot of daal for a comforting lunch of daal chawal with shami kebab. There is a Pakistani home cook across the road from where we order kebabs and samosas from.