Monsoon Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Monsoon. Here they are! All 200 of them:

They carried the sky. The whole atmosphere, they carried it, the humidity, the monsoons, the stink of fungus and decay, all of it, they carried gravity.
Tim O'Brien (The Things They Carried)
I’ve told you the four thunderstorms – disappointment, frustration, unfairness and isolation. You cannot avoid them, as like the monsoon they will come into your life at regular intervals. You just need to keep the raincoat handy to not let the spark die
Chetan Bhagat
Trying to remember, I have learned, is like trying to clutch a handful of fog. Trying to forget, like trying to hold back the monsoon.
Patricia McCormick (Sold)
Kissing can ruin lives. Lips touch sometimes teeth clash. New hunger is born with a throb and caution falls away. A cursed girl with lips still moist from her first kiss might feel suddenly wild like a little monsoon. She might forget her curse just long enough to get careless and let it come true. She might kill everyone she loves...
Laini Taylor (Lips Touch: Three Times)
Crazy Curran ranked right up there with monsoons, tornadoes, earthquakes, and other natural disasters.
Ilona Andrews (Magic Strikes (Kate Daniels, #3))
A hint of sensual frustration roughened his voice. “And I will curse the gods along with them, Min. Some wild monsoon raged through me as I looked at you just now. It’s left me rearranged inside, and I don’t have a map.
Tessa Dare (A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove, #2))
They will not be pleased. But they know we must catch the monsoon with a well-found ship; and they know they are in the Navy--they have chosen their cake, and must lie on it.' You mean, they cannot have their bed and eat it.' No, no, it is not quite that either. I mean--I wish you would not confuse my mind, Stephen.
Patrick O'Brian (H.M.S. Surprise (Aubrey & Maturin #3))
Rain clouds come floating in, not to muddy my days ahead, but to make me calm, happy and hopeful.
rajuda
If I were a cinnamon peeler I would ride your bed and leave the yellow bark dust on your pillow. Your breasts and shoulders would reek you could never walk through markets without the profession of my fingers floating over you. The blind would stumble certain of whom they approached though you might bathe under rain gutters, monsoon. Here on the upper thigh at this smooth pasture neighbor to your hair or the crease that cuts your back. This ankle. You will be known among strangers as the cinnamon peeler's wife. I could hardly glance at you before marriage never touch you -- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers. I buried my hands in saffron, disguised them over smoking tar, helped the honey gatherers... When we swam once I touched you in water and our bodies remained free, you could hold me and be blind of smell. You climbed the bank and said this is how you touch other women the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter. And you searched your arms for the missing perfume. and knew what good is it to be the lime burner's daughter left with no trace as if not spoken to in an act of love as if wounded without the pleasure of scar. You touched your belly to my hands in the dry air and said I am the cinnamon peeler's wife. Smell me.
Michael Ondaatje (The Cinnamon Peeler: Selected Poems)
the woman is rain, and when she falls, she is a monsoon. to love her is to drown.
AVA. (you are safe here.)
He couldn’t compare a woman to a torrentially beautiful monsoon, and then look surprised that he’d gotten wet.
Tessa Dare (A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove, #2))
I knew then and there only that pretty young little things are like monsoon lilies; transient trams. Catch them if you can, but if you miss them, do not wail, a next one would be whistling round the corner, about to enter the La Gurre of your heart
Aporva Kala (Life... Love... Kumbh...)
Maybe love is like a monsoon rain. When it rains really hard and heavy, it seems like it will never end and we'll swim in mud forever. But then the wind shifts and the earth grows dry and cracked. Every gurgle and ooze tiptoes away and we're left wishing and waiting for rain again. Maybe love is like that. Maybe the wind shifts and love just tiptoes away.
Ann E. Burg (All the Broken Pieces)
The dead were buried above ground, the loose soil heaped around them. The heavy rains of the monsoon months softened the mounds, so that they formed outlines of the bodies within them, as if this small cemetery beside the military airfield were doing its best to resurrect a few of the millions who had died in the war. Here and there an arm or a foot protruded from the graves, the limbs of restless sleepers struggling beneath their brown quilts.
J.G. Ballard (Empire of the Sun)
I will insist you be man enough to take it. I won’t have you making light of my feelings, or making light of yourself—as if you’re not worthy of them. Because you are worthy, Colin. You’re a generous, good-hearted person, and you deserve to be loved. Deeply, truly, well, and often.” He looked utterly bewildered. Well, what did he expect, after the power he’d given her? He couldn’t compare a woman to a torrentially beautiful monsoon, and then look surprised that he’d gotten wet. “You reckless man.” She laid a touch to his cheek. “You really should be more careful with those compliments.
Tessa Dare (A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove, #2))
In the name of being social, we learn to ignore our natural instinct. Society keeps dictating do's and don'ts which we keep obeying day in and day out.
Chitralekha Paul (Delayed Monsoon)
And people turn to internet with the hope that in this virtual world, where real identity need not be disclosed, they will find someone before whom they could be their true self,without any pretensions and get an opportunity to release the pent-up emotions and feel light.
Chitralekha Paul (Delayed Monsoon)
Mă leg pe tine, pământule, că eu voi fi a lui Allan, și a nimănui altuia. Voi crește din el ca iarba din tine. Și cum aștepți tu ploaia, așa îi voi aștepta eu venirea, și cum îți sunt ție razele, așa va fi trupul lui mie. Mă leg în fața ta că unirea noastră va rodi, căci mi-e drag cu voia mea, și tot răul, dacă va fi, să nu cadă asupra lui, ci asupră-mi, căci eu l-am ales. Tu mă auzi, mamă pământ, tu nu mă minți, maica mea. Dacă mă simți aproape, cum te simt eu acum, și cu mâna și cu inelul, întărește-mă să-l iubesc totdeauna, bucurie necunoscută lui să-i aduc, viață de rod și de joc să-i dau. Să fie viața noastră ca bucuria ierburilor ce cresc din tine. Să fie îmbrățișarea noastră ca cea dintâi zi a monsoon-ului. Ploaie să fie sărutul nostru. Și cum tu niciodată nu obosești, maica mea, tot astfel să nu obosească inima mea în dragostea pentru Allan, pe care cerul l-a născut departe, și tu, maică, mi l-ai adus aproape.
Mircea Eliade (Maitreyi)
A man follows the path laid out for him. He does his duty to God and his King. He does what he must do, not what pleases him. God's truth, boy, what kind of world would this be if every man did what pleased him alone? Who would plough the fields and reap the harvest, if every man had the right to say, 'I don't want to do that.' In this world there is a place for every man, but every man must know his place.
Wilbur Smith (Monsoon (Courtney, #10))
The monsoons were the real thing; they dissolved things to the bone.
Anjum Hasan (The Cosmopolitans)
As a romantic ideal, turbulent, impoverished India could still weave its spell, and the key to it all - the colours, the moods, the scents, the subtle, mysterious light, the poetry, the heightened expectations, the kind of beauty that made your heart miss a beat - well, that remained the monsoon.
Alexander Frater (Chasing the Monsoon)
lots of things happen in our lives without any apparent justification. but whatever happens to us,takes us one step ahead in the path of self realisation. The truth is we all are travellers in the life's eternal journey, to meet for a short while,to care and share but we tend to forget that nothing lasts forever. if only we could cultivate a sense of detachment,life would have been much easier.
Chitralekha Paul (Delayed Monsoon)
It storms when you make love?” “Apparently.” Turning back to the large warriors in the hallway, Leah flashed them all a grin. “Well then, boys, you’d better put your rain boots on. Because monsoon season is coming.
Dianne Duvall (Death of Darkness (Immortal Guardians, #9))
In Paradise it is true that I shall drink at dawn the pure wine mentioned in the Koran, but where in Paradise are the long walks with intoxicated friends in the night, or the drunken crowds shouting merrily? Where shall I find there the intoxication of Monsoon clouds? Where there is no Autumn how can Spring exist? If the beautiful houris are always there, where will be the sadness of a separation and the joy of union? Where shall we find there a girl who flees away when we would kiss her?
Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib
We are in the monsoons and we must weather it out - the way of wisdom is, instead of pining for calmer days, to learn to live wisely and well in the midst of continuous strain.
Elton Trueblood
I mean, there’s doomed. There’s screwed. And there’s monsoons-in-Hell fucked. And we’re at fucked o’clock.
Richard Kadrey (The Getaway God)
Could you please move? Your shadow is touching mine." "Oh, I am so sorry." said Monsoon apologetically. "I didn't mean to." "Whatever," said Aru.
Roshani Chokshi (Aru Shah and the End of Time (Pandava Quartet, #1))
Words for everyday showers of prettiness, and the kind of misty loveliness that disappears whenever you try to grasp it. Beauty that’s heralded by impressive thunder, but turns out to be all flash. And beyond all these, there’d be this word . . . a word that even the most grizzled, wizened elders might have uttered twice in their lifetimes, and in hushed, fearful tones at that. A word for a sudden, cataclysmic torrent of beauty with the power to change landscapes. Make plains out of valleys and alter the course of rivers and leave people clinging to trees, alive and resentful, shaking their fists at the heavens.” A hint of sensual frustration roughened his voice. “And I will curse the gods along with them, Min. Some wild monsoon raged through me as I looked at you just now. It’s left me rearranged inside, and I don’t have a map.
Tessa Dare (A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove, #2))
She liked the way a ray of mild autumn sun infiltrating the thick cluster of trees caught a reddish orange leaf swirling in the wind and transformed it golden yellow. She liked that it wasn’t a leaf she recognised, that she could name or associate with her past.
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
Love comes and goes so fast! It comes like a tropical storm and it goes like the wind in winter
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What wouldn’t my people give for a few bites of the biryani she ordered me to throw away yesterday because she said it smelt?
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
...a rainy day ceases to have meaning for a person who has lived in the open under a monsoon cloud most of his life.
Vikas Swarup (Q & A)
Pain is a monsoon—drenching me inside and out.
Ella James (Sloth (Sinful Secrets, #1))
If people were seasons, she'd be monsoon. After every downpour, the garden laughed like her, wild and free.
Meeta Ahluwalia
The clouds that menaced this morning did so all day, growing heavier and blacker until they burst, monsoon-like, this evening, just as office workers stepped outside and the rush hour began in earnest, leaving the roads gridlocked and tube station entrances choked with people opening and closing umbrellas.
Paula Hawkins (The Girl on the Train)
Where are the coconut trees bowing allegiance to the wind, the wide open spaces, the verdant green fields?
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
Do you like that?" I'll say in surprise since it doesn't seem like her type of thing, and she'll look at me as if I'm mad. That!?" She'll say, "No, it's hideous" Then why on earth," I always want to say, "did you walk all the way over there to touch it?" but of course...I have learned to say nothing when shopping because no matter what you say... Read more - "I'm hungry", "I'm bored", "My feet are tired", "Yes, that one looks nice on you too", "Well, have both of them", "Oh, for fuck sake", "Can't we just go home", "Monsoon? Again? Oh for fuck sake", "then why on earth did you walk all the way over there to touch it?" - it doesn't pay, so I say nothing.
Bill Bryson (Notes from a Small Island)
PTSD seems to have an even higher prevalence and greater severity following violence or disaster that is man-made; natural disasters, "acts of God," seem somehow easier to accept. (...). This is the case with acute stress reactions, too: I see it often with my patients in hospital, who can show extraordinary courage and calmness in facing the most dreadful diseases but fly into a rage if a nurse is late with a bedpan or a medication. The amorality of nature is accepted, whether it takes the form of a monsoon, an elephant in musth, or a disease; but being subjected helplessly to the will of others is not, for human behavior always carries (or is felt to carry) a moral charge.
Oliver Sacks (Hallucinations)
When I feel broken, I cry like the monsoons; and when I glue the pieces back together, I swell and surge like the sea. And then I gradually become tranquil, peaceful, calm...
Subarna Prasad Acharya
So old were you, Grammpa— the last time I saw you, anaemic You looked like the monsoon in my town.
Abhijit Sarmah (The Voice Under Silence: Poems)
Sometimes rain of monsoon is not enough until love one is there.
Vishal Kapadia
We all know that if the seasons were the same, there would be no growth. We know that without winter there would be no spring. We know that without frosts there would be no bulbs and without the monsoon there would be no rice harvest. In the same way, we also know that without sorrow there would be no joy. Without pain there would be no healing. I think that's precisely where the beauty comes in. It comes in through the fruit of the seasons. He has indeed made everything beautiful in its time.
Naomi Reed (My Seventh Monsoon: A Himalayan Journey Of Faith And Mission)
These are secrets hidden from those who escape the Himalaya when it is at its bleakest: the mountains do not reveal themselves to people who come here merely to escape the heat of the plains. Through the summer they veil themselves in a haze. The peaks emerge for those devoted to them through the coldest of winters, the wettest of monsoons. The mountains, Diwan Sahib said in an uncharacteristic rush of sentimentality fueled by a few drinks at his fireplace, believe that love must be tested by adversity.
Anuradha Roy (The Folded Earth)
Which story do you want to hear my child?"he picked him up and made him sit on his lap. "Tell us the story of that fairy who lived in a house of wafers,had a garden of chocolate trees and a pond full of goldfishes,"the child wrapped his arms around his shoulder.
Chitralekha Paul (Delayed Monsoon)
She wanted him to be the sunshine to her clouds. She couldn't handle the idea that he had weather patterns of his own, and that he contained within himself the makings of a downpour and possibly even a monsoon.
Lucinda Rosenfeld (What She Saw...)
I watched the rows and rows of chappals left by devotees outside the Hindu temple and wondered if the homeless boys who sometimes steal our chickens ever steal them, and if they do, are they punished, and if so by whom?
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
May in Varanasi. 25° and wet. It's like the 6th circle of the inferno here, Edith - where they flail the arses off the howling heretics and the men who fuck marine life etc. NATO's stomping on the Balkans while India and Pakistan threaten one another with nukes. "Dead From the Waist Down" on MTV. The humidity's making me horny and mad. I miss Robin. In his new book, Ken Wilbur calls it "skin hunger". I feel like I'm building up a charge. Monsoon's on its way.
Grant Morrison
rule number eight: noting ventured, nothing gained
Mitali Perkins (Monsoon Summer)
democracy that cannot control its own population may be worse for human rights than a dictatorship that can.
Robert D. Kaplan (Monsoon: The Indian Ocean and the Future of American Power)
मेघ गर्जना— घनप्रिया के संग इन्द्रधनुष ।
Manish Kumar Shrivastava (Prakash : Ek Dyuti (प्रकाश : एक द्युति))
I wash the clothes, rinse them and then scrub them again. Will that square little box do that? I am not using any fancy machines when my hands will do.
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
Every family has secrets, Reena, and they’re there for a reason.
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
But he’s an untouchable, Shirin.’ ‘He’s my Untouchable Prince Charming, then. Only I am allowed to touch him.
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
There’s a great drought in my village. People are dying. The price of rice and pulses has rocketed. There is no water anywhere. And here, people are complaining about the rain...
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
What use is status if you have no one to share it with, Dad?
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
You put cow dung on my face?’ ‘Every day religiously until you were three. Why else do you think your skin is so clear?
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
What the four seasons of the year mean to the European, the one season of the monsoon means to the Indian. It is preceded by desolation; it brings with it hopes of spring; it has the fullness of summer and the fulfillment of autumn all in one.
Khushwant Singh (I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale)
My heart screams to get drenched in the magical rain but here I am stuck by my window inhaling the petrichor smell. The cosmos is dancing in joy as monsoon has touched the sky like a mighty sage and nature is all set to party like never before, as this time humans are caged.
Nayana Phukan
Author's Note: I wanted to read the book that would begin to answer some of my questions, because I felt I couldn't write it... I also doubted my ability to handle monsoon and slum conditions after years of lousy health. I made the decision to try in the course of an absurdly long night at home alone in Washington, D.C. Tripping over an unabridged dictionary, I found myself on the floor with a punctured lung and three broken ribs in a spreading pool of Diet Dr Pepper, unable to slither to a phone. In the hours that passed, I arrived at a certain clarity. Having proved myself ill-suited to safe cohabitation with an unabridged dictionary, I had little to lose by pursuing my interests in another quarter-- a place beyond my so-called expertise, where the risk of failure would be great but the interactions somewhat more meaningful.
Katherine Boo (Behind the Beautiful Forevers: Life, Death, and Hope in a Mumbai Undercity)
There was nothing unique about my beech tree, nothing difficult in its ascent, no biological revelation at its summit, nor any honey, but it had become a place to think. A roost. I was fond of it, and it -- well, it had no notion of me. I had climbed it many times; at first light, dusk, and glaring noon. I had climbed it in winter, brushing snow from the branches of my hand, with the wood cold as stone to the touch, and real crows' nests black in the branches of nearby trees. I had climbed in in early summer, and looked out over the countryside with heat jellying the air and the drowsy buzz of a tractor from somewhere nearby. And I had climbed it in monsoon rain, with water falling in rods thick enough for the eye to see. Climbing the tree was a way to get perspective, however slight; to look down on a city that I usually looked across. The relief of relief. Above all, it was a way of defraying the city's claims on me.
Robert Macfarlane (The Wild Places)
A year ago, I was at a dinner in Amsterdam when the question came up of whether each of us loved his or her country. The German shuddered, the Dutch were equivocal, the Brit said he was "comfortable" with Britain, the expatriate American said no. And I said yes. Driving across the arid lands, the red lands, I wondered what it was I loved. the places, the sagebrush basins, the rivers digging themselves deep canyons through arid lands, the incomparable cloud formations of summer monsoons, the way the underside of clouds turns the same blue as the underside of a great blue heron's wings when the storm is about to break. Beyond that, for anything you can say about the United States, you can also say the opposite: we're rootless except we're also the Hopi, who haven't moved in several centuries; we're violent except we're also the Franciscans nonviolently resisting nucelar weapons out here; we're consumers except the West is studded with visionary environmentalists...and the landscape of the West seems like the stage on which such dramas are played out, a space without boundaries, in which anything can be realized, a moral ground, out here where your shadow can stretch hundreds of feet just before sunset, where you loom large, and lonely.
Rebecca Solnit (Storming the Gates of Paradise: Landscapes for Politics)
Then the wind comes so swift and dashing that it takes the autumn leaves with it, and they rise into the juggling air, while the trees bleat and blubber. Then drops fall, big as the thumb … the earth itself seems to heave up and cheep in the monsoon rains. It churns and splashes, beats against the treetops, reckless and wilful, and suddenly floating forwards, it bucks back and spits forward and pours down upon the green, weak coffee leaves, thumping them down to the earth.
Raja Rao (Kanthapura)
Maitreyi continuă totuşi cu o simplitate care începu să mă cucerească. Vorbea apei, vorbea cerului cu stele, pădurii, pămîntului. Îşi sprijini bine în iarbă pumnii purtînd inelul şi făgădui: ― Mă leg pe tine, pămîntule, că eu voi fi a lui Allan, şi a nimănui altuia. Voi creşte din el ca iarba din tine. Şi cum aştepţi tu ploaia, aşa îi voi aştepta eu venirea, şi cum îţi sunt ţie razele, aşa va fi trupul lui mie. Mă leg în faţa ta că unirea noastră va rodi, căci mi-e drag cu voia mea, şi tot răul, dacă va fi, să nu cadă asupra lui, ci asupră-mi, căci eu l-am ales. Tu mă auzi, mamă pămînt, tu nu mă minţi, maica mea. Dacă mă simţi aproape, cum te simt eu acum, şi cu mîna şi cu inelul, întăreşte-mă să-l iubesc totdeauna, bucurie necunoscută lui să-i aduc, viaţă de rod şi de joc să-i dau. Să fie viaţa noastră ca bucuria ierburilor ce cresc din tine. Să fie îmbrăţişarea noastră ca cea dinţii zi a monsoon-ului. Ploaie să fie sărutul nostru. Şi cum tu niciodată nu oboseşti, maica mea, tot astfel să nu obosească inima mea în dragostea pentru Allan, pe care cerul l-a născut departe, şi tu, maică, mi l-ai adus aproape.
Mircea Eliade
Shortly before the monsoon, the heat becomes very intense. It is said that the more intense it becomes the more abundantly it will draw down the rains, so one wants it to be as hot as can be. And by that time one has accepted it -- not got used to but accepted; and moreover, too worn-out to fight against it, one submits to it and endures.
Ruth Prawer Jhabvala (Heat and Dust)
(Later in my journey I was told of an outrageous but apparently successful attempt to bring tourists to Great Nicobar. During the monsoon torrential rain comes down spectacularly. A bright Indian entrepreneur advertised a tour for rich Arabs from the arid Gulf who could sit on their hotel balcony and watch rain for a week. It was a sell-out.)
Michael Palin (Around The World In Eighty Days)
Remember that you told me that a monsoon doesn't discriminate? Rich or poor, kind or cruel, we are all equal in the monsoon. And yet we carry on as normal! We go to school, market stalls open and close, we play cricket, we laugh. Meanwhile, the monsoon gathers. We are all liars, Ma. We are all great deceivers. I am a liar but I'm not the only one.
Irfan Master (A Beautiful Lie)
What better hiding place than an old, woodlice-ridden album of photographs!
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
Sometimes, it is easier to leave things as they are, rather than to fight, go against the flow.
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
What am I doing here, Reena? Why am I dancing to the tunes of that old hag?’‘You are saving your family.
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
You are a girl, Shirin. Girls don’t run around naked.’‘Why?’‘They just don’t.
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
She was a sleuth and sleuths had to follow rules. ‘Get to the point; don’t allow the subject to digress’ was one of them
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
The wildness of this life grows & grows & continues to astound me with how large it is, how little I know of it.
Topaz Winters (Monsoon Dream (2412 #6))
Today, despite the jet and information age, 90 percent of global commerce and two thirds of all petroleum supplies travel by sea.
Robert D. Kaplan (Monsoon: The Indian Ocean and the Future of American Power)
হিজলের বনে, ফুলের আখরে, লিখিয়া রঙিন চিঠি, নিরালা বাদলে ভাসাইয়া দিয়াছে, না জানি কোন দিঠি।
Jasim Uddin (ধানখেত)
এদিকে দিগন্তে যতদূর চাহি, পাংশু মেঘের জাল- পায়ে জড়াইয়া পথে দাড়ায়েছে, আজিকার মহাকাল।
Jasim Uddin (ধানখেত)
How I missed the sound of rain, like the voice of an old friend.
Meeta Ahluwalia
The monsoon came, six months of infinite rain. The towns I once knew were wiped clean, and everyone said it was God revising his poem.
Eric Gamalinda (Amigo Warfare)
When I think of you, Esha, I imagine the monsoon. Warm and life-giving. Fierce and powerful. A contradiction, just like a warrior poet.
Swati Teerdhala (The Archer at Dawn (The Tiger at Midnight Trilogy, #2))
Well, that showered me with a monsoon of perspective.
Helena Hunting (Inked Armour (Clipped Wings, #2))
the woman is rain, and when she falls, she is a monsoon. to love her is to drown.
Ava
I am a sensation of light, fire, bursting, shifting, cracking, floating, flowing. I am an eruption, an awakening, a monsoon of myself. I am a memory of eternal oneness.
Carrie Schmitt (The Story of Every Flower)
My baptism was a slightly awkward affair. . . . The water trickled down my face and down my neck; though just a beakers worth, it had the refreshing effect of a monsoon rain.
Yann Martel (Life of Pi)
MD’s letter finally reached the village. But no one opened it. Winds glibly carried it away in casual chase and whispers of ghastly horror through the bamboo bush. The house of the Monsoon rain and the pretty pink knitting was now deserted; front yard had fallen decrepit as though struck with the dark fever of pestilence. Branches from storm lay randomly across the yard as did poles and the shack roof. Doors hung from their hinges, in the process of coming completely apart. Ravens came and sat fruitlessly in the yard in search of salted fish.
Mehreen Ahmed (Moirae)
Owen took Nora’s hand and squeezed it. She leaned her head against his arm, and beneath the layers of grime and torn silk and the frantic beating of her heart, something whispered to her. A cool cup of water soothing her parched throat. A breeze in the middle of India’s scorching summer. A dance beneath monsoon rains. This is right. This is good. This is worth it.
Kimberly Duffy (A Mosaic of Wings)
Jungle rain had no beginning or end; it grew like foliage from the sky, branching and arching to the earth, sometimes in solid thickets entangling the islands, and other times, in tendrils of blue mist curling out of coastal clouds. The jungle breathed an eternal green that fevered men until they dripped sweat the way rubbery jungle leaves dripped the monsoon rain.
Leslie Marmon Silko (Ceremony)
The monsoons had cooled down the temperature and a thick blanket, folded into a perfect rectangle, lay at the foot of my bed. Grandma must have come to inspect the settings a hundred times, being a perfectionist. Her love was evident in every little thing that was present in the house. It was soothing to be back in the house. Something unwounded from within, the moment I entered it.
Preethi Venugopala
The light was as intense as a love affair. I was blinded, delighted, not just because it was warm and wonderful, but because nature measures nothing. Nobody needs this much sunlight. Nobody needs droughts, volcanoes, monsoons, tornadoes either, but we get them, because our world is as extravagant as a world can be. We are the ones obsessed by measurement. The world just pours it out.
Jeanette Winterson
Why are the desert blooms that spring to life after a monsoon so magnificent? The answer is – their impermanence. The lush growth and blooming flowers do not last very long here in the desert, and this new growth only happens once a year. If this growth was never-ending, we would soon take it for granted. Likewise, our human lives. What makes them so special and unique? Our fleeting impermanence.
Alaric Hutchinson (Living Peace: Essential Teachings for Enriching Life)
Have you been reading those books that clueless illiterate Duja in charge of the lending library lets you borrow?’ ‘No, Ma.’ ‘Then what put you in mind of devils possessing nuns to take over the church?
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
To know India and her peoples, one has to know the monsoon. one has to know the monsoon. It is not enough to read about it in books, or see it on the cinema screen, or hear someone talk about it. It has to be a personal experience because nothing short of living through it can fully convey all it means to a people for whom it is not only the source of life, but also their most exciting impact with nature.
Khushwant Singh (I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale)
Hon or We have both traveled from the other side of some hill, one side of which we may wish we could forget" Love me stupid. Love me terrible. And when I am no mountain but rather a monsoon of imperfect thunder love me. When I am blue in my face from swallowing myself yet wearing my best heart even if my best heart is a century of hunger an angry mule breathing hard or perhaps even hopeful. A small sun. Little & bright.
Anis Mojgani
Marriage can be made to work if both the partners can see beyond themselves and understand the limitations,needs and abilities of the other person and are willing to embrace the positive and negative aspects of each other in their understanding. But it never happens that way. We expect others to understand and comply with us while we fail to do the same. Thus marriage loses all it's sheen by the time the couple reaches middle age.
Chitralekha Paul (Delayed Monsoon)
We can get through this place because we’re a team, Shoolan. And we have the Captain. These other people, they didn’t have the Captain.” Leilius sounded so sure. The kid was the most trusting, positive person Shanti had ever known. “Cadet, if you keep talking like that,” Sanders said in a voice that could cut through a monsoon and still reach the intended ear. “People are going to think God scooped out your brains and replaced them with rainbows and horse shit.
K.F. Breene (Hunted (The Warrior Chronicles, #2))
The amorality of nature is accepted, whether it takes the form of a monsoon, an elephant in musth, or a disease; but being subjected helplessy to the will of of others is not, for human behavior always carries (or is felt to carry) a moral charge
Oliver Sacks (Hallucinations)
Mad Wind (The Sonnet) Turn into a mad wind, And blow away the rigidity. Now the savagery must end, To do that we must rise as almighty. Turn into the monsoon rain, And wash away all sickness. Whenever a crisis arrives, We must step up shredding all weakness. Turn into a purifying wave, And smoothen the thorns of argument. Whenever rises differentiation, We must become the bridge without bent. The world is unstable and feeble with insecurity. We must be its strength offering our soul as stability.
Abhijit Naskar (When Call The People: My World My Responsibility)
The equatorial monsoons which brought a rainy season to the coasts had small effect here in the highlands, from moon to moon, the rainfall varied little. Winter, summer, autumn, spring were involuted, turning in upon themselves, a slow circling of time.
Peter Matthiessen (Under the Mountain Wall)
Try to remember that even if they deliver the wrong cake, the limo driver is a no-show, there's a monsoon, and the band plays music you hate, you will still have just married the person of your dreams!!! Isn't that what the whole thing is really about?
Liz Long (The Organized Wedding)
It was as if the curtains came down on all this, if not entirely obliterated it, when the monsoon rose up in the thunderous clouds from the parched valley below to engulf the hills, invade them with the opaque mist in which a pine tree or a mountain top appeared only intermittently, and then unleashed a downpour that brought Ravi's rambling to a halt and confined him to the house for days at a time, deafened by the rain drumming on the rooftop and cascading down the gutters and through the spouts to rush downhill in torrents.
Anita Desai (The Artist of Disappearance)
It was altogether a different story now. Abhilasha started coming out of the cold aloofness which had become her second nature, while for Arvind, it was like ‘fiddle found a melody’. He was in love with his life again. With their growing intimacy, came the desire to meet each other. And at last it materialised when they fixed a date for meeting. The long awaited day came. A sleepless night of nervous apprehension, culminated at dawn, as Abhilasha could no longer lie down. While there was much excitement at the prospect of meeting him but the possibility of a probable mismatch between the real Arvind and the virtual one, loomed large on her mind, making her feel nervous.
Chitralekha Paul (Delayed Monsoon)
It drips on her head most days, says Champaben, but in the monsoon season it's worse. In rain, worms multiply. Every day, nonetheless, she gets up and walks to her owners' house, and there she picks up their excrement with her bare hands or a piece of tin, scrapes it into a basket, puts the basket on her head or shoulders, and carries it to the nearest waste dump. She has no mask, no gloves, and no protection. She is paid a pittance if she gets paid at all. She regularly gets dysentary, giardia, brain fever. She does this because a 3,000-year-old social hierarchy says she has to.
Rose George (The Big Necessity: The Unmentionable World of Human Waste and Why It Matters)
I often think of myself as a cloud, wandering, drifting in pristine silence. Then suddenly the landscape changes and I am dark, thunderous, unsurmountable, roaring inside my own head. It is beautiful and terrifying at the same time, almost like the unpredictable monsoon showers in my firmament.
Jaspreet Mann (Monsoon Showers)
It had been an evening in the empty dance hall when not even that depth of stone and the constant stirring of the ceiling fans could cool the stifling and humid night air, which had entered the Duckworth Club as heavily as a fog from the Arabian Sea. Even atheists, like Lowji, were praying for the monsoon rains. After
John Irving (A Son of the Circus)
Our insect musicians are roused to their greatest activity during the monsoons. At dusk the air seems to tinkle and murmur to their music. To the shrilling of the grasshoppers is added the staccato notes of the crickets, while in the grass and on the trees myriads of lesser artistes are producing a variety of sounds. As musicians, the cicadas are in a class of their own. Throughout the monsoons their screaming chorus rings through the forest. A shower, far from dampening their ardour, only rouses them to a deafening crescendo of effort. As with most insect musicians, the males do the performing, the females remain silent. This moved one chauvinistic Greek poet to exclaim: ‘Happy the cicadas, for they have voiceless wives!’ To which I would respond by saying, ‘Pity the female cicadas, for they have singing husbands!’ Probably the most familiar and homely of insect singers are the crickets. I won’t attempt to go into detail on how the cricket produces its music, except to say that its louder notes are produced by a rapid vibration of the wings, the right wing usually working over the left, the edge of one acting on the file of the other to produce a shrill, long-sustained note, like a violinist gone mad. Cicadas, on the other hand, use their abdominal muscles to produce their sound.
Ruskin Bond (Landour Days: A Writer's Journal)
She looked beautiful. And sad. For she was leaving India, India of the heat and monsoons, of rice fields and the Cauvery River, of coastlines and stone temples, of bullock carts and colourful trucks, of friends and known shopkeepers, of Nehru Street and Goubert Salai, of this and that, India so familiar to her and loved by her.
Yann Martel (Life of Pi)
Ah, and then her beautiful face…actually, the level and angle that she was holding the umbrella, the whole time as she passed within Suresh’s view, only allowed him to see the bottom of her chin at most. Still, with a body as beautiful as hers, Suresh was quite certain that her face would be nothing less than positively stunning!
Andrew James Pritchard (Monsoon Love and Other Nepali Stories)
It was June in Maharashtra, and the monsoon would not come. The whole district lay panting in the heat, the burning sky clapped tight overhead like the lid of a tandoor oven. Lean goats stumbled down the narrow alleyways, udders hanging slack and dry beneath them; beggars cried for water in every village. Dust-devils swept over baked clay and through the dry weeds, whistling and shrieking. Hot sand blew into the eyes of torpid bullocks as they leaned into the yoke, whips snapping over their bony backs. A single stream crept along the valley floor, shrunken and muddy, and women stood ankle deep in its shallows, beating their laundry against rocks that rippled and danced in the sun.
Arinn Dembo (Monsoon and Other Stories)
one rich girl’s trash is a poor girl’s dinner.
Cinelle Barnes (Monsoon Mansion: A Memoir)
the opening of the Suez Canal shortened the distance from Europe to India, undermining the importance of Muscat and other Omani harbors as Indian Ocean transshipment points.
Robert D. Kaplan (Monsoon: The Indian Ocean and the Future of American Power)
Wandering clouds— Short spells of rain, poetry!
Meeta Ahluwalia
देखेकै सपना साकार हुन्छ, नदेखेको सपनाको आकार कहाँ हुन्छ ?
सुबिन भट्टराई (Subin Bhattarai)
The black sky just kept assuming deeper shades of black until, suddenly, it had blacked itself out entirely.
Alexander Frater (Chasing the Monsoon)
… everything was fresh, green and particularly beautiful. Afternoon light, filtering between remnants of monsoon clouds, picked out gullies and spot-lit patches of forest and scrub on the convoluted ridges of the rim of the Kathmandu Valley. Or, after a rainstorm, wisps of clouds clung to the trees as if scared to let go. Behind, himals peeked out shyly between the clouds.
Jane Wilson-Howarth (A Glimpse of Eternal Snows: A Journey of Love and Loss in the Himalayas)
THE BLUE DRESS Her blue dress is a silk train is a river is water seeps into the cobblestone steps of my sleep, is still raining is monsoon brocade, is winter stars stitched into puddles is goodbye in a flooded, antique room, is goodbye in a room of crystal bowls and crystal cups, is the ring-ting-ring of water dripping from the mouths of crystal bowls and crystal cups, is the Mississippi river is a hallway, is leaks like tears from windowsills of a drowned house, is windows open to waterfalls is a bed is a small boat is a ship, is a currant come to carry me in its arms through the streets, is me floating in her dress through the streets is the moon sees me floating through the streets, is me in a blue dress out to sea, is my mother is a moon out to sea.
Saeed Jones (Prelude to Bruise)
Rice Greyness masks the giving sun, Cool air snakes between my thighs, Dragonflies alight in heeded flight, As monsoon floods the paddy's eyes. I step barefoot on the spongy mud Which tugs back upon my sole My journey etched in reddish clay Mapped out from source to goal. Winds murmur of a change of plan And unveil the playful sun. I put new footprints in my footprints And begin again where I've begun.
Beryl Dov
NASA documents from 1966 confirm the United States weather modification programme with a budget of hundreds of millions of dollars and in the 1990s the US military was publishing papers expounding the war possibilities of weather manipulation, or 'geoengineering' as it is also known. American scientist J. Marvin Herndon described in the International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health in 2015 how weather modification has been happening for decades and includes the 'make mud, not war' programme named Project Popeye to create monsoon-scale rain during the Vietnam War. US Air Force document AF 2025 Final Report published in 1996 explained how artificially-generated floods, hurricanes, droughts and earthquakes 'offers the war fighter a wide range of possible options to defeat or coerce an adversary'.
David Icke (Everything You Need to Know But Have Never Been Told By David Icke)
But where should he begin? - Well, then, the trouble with the English was their: Their: In a word, Gibreel solemnly pronounced, their weather. Gibreel Farishta floating on his cloud formed the opinion that the moral fuzziness of the English was meteorologically induced. 'When the day is not warmer than the night,' he reasoned, 'when the light is not brighter than the dark, when the land is not drier than the sea, then clearly a people will lose the power to make distinctions, and commence to see everything - from political parties to sexual partners to religious beliefs - as much-the-same, nothing-to-choose, give-or-take. What folly! For truth is extreme, it is so and not thus, it is him and not her; a partisan matter, not a spectator sport. It is, in brief, heated. City,' he cried, and his voice rolled over the metropolis like thunder, 'I am going to tropicalize you.' Gibreel enumerated the benefits of the proposed metamorphosis of London into a tropical city: increased moral definition, institution of a national siesta, development of vivid and expansive patterns of behaviour among the populace, higher-quality popular music, new birds in the trees (macaws, peacocks, cockatoos), new trees under the birds (coco-palms, tamarind, banyans with hanging beards). Improved street-life, outrageously coloured flowers (magenta, vermilion, neon-green), spider-monkeys in the oaks. A new mass market for domestic air-conditioning units, ceiling fans, anti-mosquito coils and sprays. A coir and copra industry. Increased appeal of London as a centre for conferences, etc.: better cricketeers; higher emphasis on ball-control among professional footballers, the traditional and soulless English commitment to 'high workrate' having been rendered obsolete by the heat. Religious fervour, political ferment, renewal of interest in the intellegentsia. No more British reserve; hot-water bottles to be banished forever, replaced in the foetid nights by the making of slow and odorous love. Emergence of new social values: friends to commence dropping in on one another without making appointments, closure of old-folks' homes, emphasis on the extended family. Spicier foods; the use of water as well as paper in English toilets; the joy of running fully dressed through the first rains of the monsoon. Disadvantages: cholera, typhoid, legionnaires' disease, cockroaches, dust, noise, a culture of excess. Standing upon the horizon, spreading his arms to fill the sky, Gibreel cried: 'Let it be.
Salman Rushdie (The Satanic Verses)
Monsoon Love is a love story with a few comic twists. The idea for this story came to me when I went into the local town of Pokhara with a friend to buy his son a birthday present. We had just arrived at the shops when a heavy down pour began, and as we had arrived on his motorbike and didn’t have raincoats or umbrellas so we had to wait for the rain to stop. We were standing under a awning watching the street while we waited, and I noticed this very beautiful young woman walk past me dressed in a t-shirt and jeans with the cuffs rolled half up her legs, but the way she held her umbrella made it impossible to see her face, though with the nice body she had her face must have been just as lovely. Then I though, imagine some guy stuck working in an office, and seeing a view like that every day of the same woman, and falling in love with her despite not seeing her face.
Andrew James Pritchard
Historically, both Marxist and liberal intellectuals, in their efforts to remake societies after Soviet and Western models, have tragically underestimated these traditional loyal ties existing below the level of the state.
Robert D. Kaplan (Monsoon: The Indian Ocean and the Future of American Power)
The Super Constellations took three days to reach London [from Australia] and lacked the power or range to dodge most storms. When monsoons or cyclones were encountered, the pilots had no choice but to put on the seat belt signs and bounce through them. Even in normal conditions they flew at a height guaranteed to produce more or less constant turbulence. (Qantas called it, without evident irony, the Kangaroo Route.) It was, by any modern measure, an ordeal.
Bill Bryson (In a Sunburned Country)
You don’t live in luxury! You are relegated to sleep in the little store room behind the kitchen with the cockroaches and rats and are at the mercy of Mrs. Gupta,’ Reena was indignant. ‘It’s five-star accommodation compared to a mud hut.
Renita D'Silva (Monsoon Memories)
British journalist Don Taylor. Writing in 1969, by which time India had stayed united for two decades and gone through four general elections, Taylor yet thought that the key question remains: can India remain in one piece – or will it fragment? . . . When one looks at this vast country and its 524 million people, the 15 major languages in use, the conflicting religions, the many races, it seems incredible that one nation could ever emerge. It is difficult to even encompass this country in the mind – the great Himalaya, the wide Indo-Gangetic plain burnt by the sun and savaged by the fierce monsoon rains, the green flooded delta of the east, the great cities like Calcutta, Bombay and Madras. It does not, often, seem like one country. And yet there is a resilience about India which seems an assurance of survival. There is something which can only be described as an Indian spirit. I believe it no exaggeration to say that the fate of Asia hangs on its survival.
Ramachandra Guha (India After Gandhi: The History of the World's Largest Democracy)
One Said, 'My grandfather once planted a Langra tree but, before he could eat the fruit, he had to marry it to another tree. A tamarind. Custom decreed it.' 'I know about that custom,' said a colleague. 'The jasmine is considered a suitable bride for a mango.
Alexander Frater (Chasing the Monsoon)
Eating was still a sore point with Smriti.She failed to understand,when interesting options like mango juice or chocolates were available,why was she forced by her stupid mother to eat boring regular meals? After much contemplation,Nikhil came up with a suggestion'Don't give her food till she herself asks for it'. His idea'starve-to know-the-worth-of -food'made sense to Abhilasha,though it took her a great deal of resolve before she could actually try it out. So on a sunday,the'lady with an iron will'took over from'the soft and kind hearted mother'.she did not give her anything to eat and waited for the golden moment,expecting a hungry Smriti to beg for food. But the much awaited moment never came.Smriti was not at all bothered about her meal and kept playing happily. The day turned into evening and still there was no trace of hunger in her. "Aren't you feeling hungry?' now a worried mother had no option but to eat the humble pie and ask the daughter. "No Maa. My friend Pinky had brought wafers and chocolates. Those were so yummy that I ate them all......" And that was the end of her'starve-to -know-the-worth-of-food-mission.
Chitralekha Paul (Delayed Monsoon)
vast and pivotal expanse of Central Asia and its Mongol-Turkic hordes. These four marginal regions, as he informs us, correspond not coincidentally to the four great numerical religions: for faith, too, in Mackinder’s judgment, is a function of geography. There are the “monsoon lands,” one in the east facing the Pacific Ocean, the home of Buddhism; the other in the south facing the Indian Ocean, the home of Hinduism. The third marginal region is Europe itself, watered by the Atlantic to the west, the hub of Christianity. But the most fragile of the four outliers is the Middle East, home of Islam,
Robert D. Kaplan (The Revenge of Geography: What the Map Tells Us About Coming Conflicts and the Battle Against Fate)
Le Corbusier’s unrendered concrete towers, after 27 years of Punjab sun and monsoon and sub-Himalayan winter, looked stained and diseased, and showed now as quite plain structures, with an applied flashiness: megalomaniac architecture: people reduced to units, individuality reserved only to the architect, imposing his ideas of colour in an inflated Miróesque mural on one building, and imposing an iconography of his own with a giant hand set in a vast flat area of concrete paving, which would have been unbearable in winter and summer and the monsoon. India had encouraged yet another outsider to build a monument to himself.
V.S. Naipaul (India: A Million Mutinies Now (Vintage International))
India is a land where contradictions will continue to abound, because there are many Indias that are being transformed, with different levels of intensity, by different forces of globalization. Each of these Indias is responding to them in different ways. Consider these coexisting examples of progress and status quo: India is a nuclear-capable state that still cannot build roads that will survive their first monsoon. It has eradicated smallpox through the length and breadth of the country, but cannot stop female foeticide and infanticide. It is a country that managed to bring about what it called the ‘green revolution’, which heralded food grain self-sufficiency for a nation that relied on external food aid and yet, it easily has the most archaic land and agricultural laws in the world, with no sign of anyone wanting to reform them any time soon. It has hundreds of millions of people who subsist on less that a dollar a day, but who vote astutely and punish political parties ruthlessly. It has an independent judiciary that once set aside even Indira Gandhi’s election to parliament and yet, many members of parliament have criminal records and still contest and win elections from prison. India is a significant exporter of intellectual capital to the rest of the world—that capital being spawned in a handful of world class institutions of engineering, science and management. Yet it is a country with primary schools of pathetic quality and where retaining children in school is a challenge. India truly is an equal opportunity employer of women leaders in politics, but it took over fifty years to recognize that domestic violence is a crime and almost as long to get tough with bride burning. It is the IT powerhouse of the world, the harbinger of the offshore services revolution that is changing the business paradigms of the developed world. But regrettably, it is also the place where there is a yawning digital divide.
Rama Bijapurkar (We are like that only: Understanding the Logic of Consumer India)
This never would have happened in India. In India they understood that life unfolded the way it unfolded, whether you liked it or not: the cow in the road, the swerve that saves or kills you. One life ended, a new one began, maybe it was better than the last one, maybe it wasn't. The Indians (and the Thais, and the Sri Lankans) accepted this the way they accepted monsoons or the heat, with a resignation that was like simple good sense. Damned Americans. Americans, unschooled in the burning dung heaps and the sudden swerves, Americans couldn't help but cling tightly to the life they were living like clutching a spindly branch that was sure to break … and when things didn't go quite as expected, Americans lost their shit. Himself included.
Sharon Guskin (The Forgetting Time)
the key question remains: can India remain in one piece – or will it fragment? . . . When one looks at this vast country and its 524 million people, the 15 major languages in use, the conflicting religions, the many races, it seems incredible that one nation could ever emerge. It is difficult to even encompass this country in the mind – the great Himalaya, the wide Indo-Gangetic plain burnt by the sun and savaged by the fierce monsoon rains, the green flooded delta of the east, the great cities like Calcutta, Bombay and Madras. It does not, often, seem like one country. And yet there is a resilience about India which seems an assurance of survival. There is something which can only be described as an Indian spirit. I believe it no exaggeration to say that the fate of Asia hangs on its survival.9
Ramachandra Guha (India After Gandhi: The History of the World's Largest Democracy)
The consequences enveloped the entire globe. During 1890 a strong La Niña ocean temperature anomaly developed, followed by two El Niño years, which warmed Pacific waters and upended normal weather patterns—causing floods in some places, drought in others. In India, monsoons failed, leading to widespread cattle deaths, locust plagues, and grain riots.172 In Russia, peasants had been pressured to clear huge areas for wheat, with the grain exported as a cash crop; overseers had walked away rich. But by 1891 and 1892, the land was exhausted. Drought, bad harvests, and bitter winters led vast numbers of peasants to burn the thatched roofs of their homes for fuel and eat “famine bread” made out of weeds. Typhus swept in to finish off the emaciated. Worldwide, millions died. It was, as one scholar put it, a “fin de siècle apocalypse.”173 Weather patterns in the
Caroline Fraser (Prairie Fires: The American Dreams of Laura Ingalls Wilder)
In Gotama’s time, it was impossible to wander through the countryside of north India during the three months of monsoon because the rivers flooded and the paths and roads became muddy torrents. The Buddha and his followers would settle in a park or grove, dedicating themselves to discussion and contemplation. Inevitably, people became curious as to what this man did during these retreats. “Why,” they may have asked, “did this person known as the ‘Awakened One’ have to practice meditation at all?” Here is the answer Gotama told his followers to give such people: “During the Rains’ residence, friend, the Teacher generally dwells in concentration through mindfulness of breathing. . . . [For] if one could say of anything: ‘this is a noble dwelling, this is a sacred dwelling, this is a tathāgata’s dwelling,’ it is of concentration through mindfulness of breathing that one could truly say this.
Stephen Batchelor (After Buddhism: Rethinking the Dharma for a Secular Age)
When I wake, it seems a little less hot than usual, so I’m worried I have a fever until light flashes behind the curtains and the sound of a detonation rolls in with a force that makes the windows rattle. As I step outside with a plastic bag over my cast, a stiff breeze pulls my hair away from my face, and I see the pregnant clouds of the monsoon hanging low over the city. The rains have finally decided to come. I sit down on the lawn, resting my back against the wall of the house, and light an aitch I’ve waited a long time to smoke. Suddenly the air is still and the trees are silent, and I can hear laughter from my neighbor’s servant quarters. A bicycle bell sounds in the street, reminding me of the green Sohrab I had as a child. Then the wind returns, bringing the smell of wet soil and a pair of orange parrots that swoop down to take shelter in the lower branches of the banyan tree, where they glow in the shadows.
Mohsin Hamid (Moth Smoke)
Mughals to the importance of sea power. The Mughals had a predominantly continental outlook. Preoccupation with cavalry warfare blinded the Indian rulers to the maritime challenge of the European powers. The Mughals would only take an enemy seriously if he confronted them with large contingents of cavalry. Thus, they neglected the Indian Ocean as the most important element of the total Indian environment. They knew the monsoon would not permit a sustained maritime invasion of India. Thus, a maritime invader would find his supply lines cut in a short time-frame. The European powers, however, never attempted such an invasion. India itself had a huge military manpower pool with a mercenary orientation. It generally flocked to the banner of whichever local ruler paid the best. The European success lay in nativisation. They built up their military contingents in India by drilling local infantry troops who were far less expensive to maintain but in the end proved fatal to the Indian cavalry.
G.D. Bakshi (The Rise of Indian Military Power: Evolution of an Indian Strategic Culture)
At the side of the house he scraped scales of fungus off the shingles. His basement smelled of mildew, his eyes stinging when he put in the laundry. The soil of his vegetable garden was too wet to till, the roots of the seedlings he’d planted washing away. The rhododendrons shed their purple petals too soon, the peonies barely opening before the stalks bent over, the blossoms smashed across the drenched ground. It was carnal, the smell of so much moisture. The smell of the earth’s decay. At night the rain would wake him. He heard it pelting the windows, washing the pitch of the driveway clean. He wondered if it was a sign of something. Of another juncture in his life. He remembered rain falling the first night he spent with Holly, in her cottage. Heavy rain the evening Bela was born. He began expecting it to leak through the bricks around the fireplace, to drip through the ceiling, to seep in below the doors. He thought of the monsoon coming every year in Tollygunge. The two ponds flooding, the embankment between them turning invisible.
Jhumpa Lahiri (The Lowland)
Nonviolence became a cultural ideal for Hindus precisely because it holds out the last hope of a cure, all the more desirable since unattainable, for a civilization that has, like most, always suffered from chronic and terminal violence. Non-violence is an ideal propped up against the cultural reality of violence. Classical Hindu India was violent in ways both shared with all cultures and unique to its particular time and place, in its politics (war being the raison d’être of every king); in its religious practices (animal sacrifice, ascetic self-torture, fire walking, swinging from hooks in the flesh of the back, and so forth); in its criminal law (impaling on stakes and the amputation of limbs being prescribed punishments for relatively minor offenses); in its hells (cunningly and sadistically contrived to make the punishment fit the crime); and, perhaps at the very heart of it all, in its climate, with its unendurable heat and unpredictable monsoons. Hindu sages dreamed of nonviolence as people who live all their lives in the desert dream of oases.
Wendy Doniger (The Hindus: An Alternative History)
Suppose I am told that a certain sample of wheat comes from Lahore, and that I do not know where Lahore is. I look it out in the gazetteer and ascertain that it is the capital of the Punjab.… If I know nothing of geography, I shall get up with the idea that Lahore is in India, and that will be about all. If I have been properly trained in geography, the word Punjab will … probably connote to me many things. I shall see Lahore in the northern angle of India. I shall picture it in a great plain, at the foot of a snowy range, in the midst of the rivers of the Indus system. I shall think of the monsoons and the desert, of the water brought from the mountains by the irrigation canals. I shall know the climate, the seed time, and the harvest. Kurrachee and the Suez Canal will shine out from my mental map. I shall be able to calculate at what time of the year the cargoes will be delivered in England. Moreover, the Punjab will be to me the equal in size and population of a great European country, a Spain or an Italy, and I shall appreciate the market it offers for English exports.7
Robert D. Kaplan (The Revenge of Geography: What the Map Tells Us About Coming Conflicts and the Battle Against Fate)
(For awhile there I was trying to remember the chain of events that precisely landed me doing this activity in this place on this planet at this time but couldn’t…. That was scary. I am just *existing* at times, having dropped all extraneous ruminations as to how or why. It seems natural to be on the bus smiling as the two Hindu women chat away while we share butter crackers and look at the rice paddies in the valley below. Goats scatter as the bus slams to a creep. Doesn’t everyone do this?) from wordpress blog: http://joeniemczura.wordpress.com/201...
Joe Niemczura
QUOTES AND THOUGHTS FROM SEEMA & FRIENDS _________________________________________________ On work and career (some paraphrasing involved): _________________________________________________ “Bosses are always jerks. It’s a job requirement.” ———- “Don’t do dumb shit.” ———- Never ever lose sight of priorities. Food always comes first. ———- An itch started in her chest. Go away, she crossly ordered her conscience. It had a habit of popping its head out at the most inconvenient times. The itch became a tickle rising to her nose. Nope, not her conscience. She was going to sneeze. ———- It’s your God-given right as an employee to whine about bosses. _______________________________________________ On romance and families (some paraphrasing involved): _______________________________________________ “Smell is very important,” Gayathri agreed, tone grave. “One of the first things I notice about a man.” ———- “Men—no matter how awful they look—always believe they deserve the hottest girl on the planet.” “What are the rest of us supposed to do?” asked Seema, glumly. Gayathri shrugged. “Act like we are the hottest girl on the planet. Confidence goes a long way.” ———- Seema had never been able to tell where friendly conversation ended and the banter of romance started. Did the delight in his gaze when it landed on her mean something more than casual amiability? What about his hand cupping her cheek to check for fever? The arm he’d wrapped around her shoulders? Was she gonna have to wait until he initiated a lip lock to be certain? Could she plant one on him? What if he ran, screaming in horror? ———- “You just have to look the other way on some things,” Gayathri advised. “Pretence is the glue which holds families together.” ———-
Anitha Perinchery (One Monsoon in Mumbai: Trouble and Laughter and Mushy Stuff)
It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream—making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams. . . ." He was silent for a while. ". . . No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence,—that which makes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream—alone. . . .
Joseph Conrad (Heart of Darkness (Annotated) (Monsoon Media Classics))
Lex poked Elysia. “The relationship is going well, it seems.” Elysia’s face erupted with worry. “Oh, Lex, I’m so sorry. It just sort of . . . happened. We were in that hotel for so many days, just waiting around to hear word from Croak, waiting for Mort to figure out a way to rescue you guys. And Wicket and Lazlo not letting us leave, we just went a little stir-crazy and—omigod, I must seem like such a bad friend, and all while you were still stuck in that awful jail and poor Driggs and—” “Lys,” Lex said, taking her by the shoulders before she could launch into a full-blown monsoon of tears. “It’s fine. I think we’ve all learned a thing or two about taking happiness where you can get it. Plus . . . you know. It’s about time.” “About time? What do you mean?” “I mean you two have been itching to get into each other’s pants since the dawn of earth.” Elysia looked shocked for a moment, then sighed. “I don’t know what I’m thinking,” she said, staring back and forth between her mostly uneaten sandwich and Ferbus. “He’s gross. He’s mean. He’s ugly. He’s a lousy drunk, he’s the biggest nerd on the planet, he looks like a leprechaun, his hair is the color of Cheetos—” “And you luuurve him.” Elysia scowled and crossed her arms. “And I lurve him.
Gina Damico (Rogue (Croak, #3))
Spiritually, we also move in seasons. We seem to bounce between times of great intimacy and closeness with God, to times of dryness. Like a ping pong ball that would rather stay still, I long for intimacy all of the time. But I know in my heart that it is not to be. The phone call that heralds fear, the diagnosis that brings grief, the material season that gives abundance... These seasons not only affect the world in front of me but they also in a strange and parallel way, affect my relationship with God. So I peer into the fog of my current season, often wondering what I will gain from my toil. I wonder whether I will see His hand transform my seasons into beauty. I wonder whether I will ever fathom what He is doing from beginning to end...
Naomi Reed (My Seventh Monsoon: A Himalayan Journey Of Faith And Mission)
I remembered meeting the Dharma Raja’s gaze and wreathing his neck with a wedding garland of sweet marigold and blood red roses. Death clung to him subtly, robbing the warmth of his eyes and silvering his beauty with a wintry touch. And yet, I saw how he was beautiful. It was his presence that conjured the brilliant peacock shades of the late-season monsoon sky. It was his aura that withered sun-ripe mangos and ushered in the lush winter fruits of custard apple and singhora chestnuts. And it was his stride that adorned the Kalidas Mountains with coronets of snow clouds. His hands moved to my shoulders, warm and solid, and his arms were a universe for me alone. He had enthralled me, unwound the seams of my being until I was filled with the sight of him and still ached with want. “I hoped you would choose me,” he said. I blushed, suddenly aware of my unbraceleted arms and simple sari. “I have no dowry.” He laughed, a hesitant, half-nervous sound that did not match his stern features. “I don’t care.” “Then what do you want from me?” “I want to lie beside you and know the weight of your dreams,” he said, brushing his lips against my knuckles. “I want to share whole worlds with you and write your name in the stars.” He moved closer and a chorus of songbirds twittered silver melodies. “I want to measure eternity with your laughter.” Now, he stood inches from me; his rough hands encircled my waist. “Be my queen and I promise you a life where you will never be bored. I promise you more power than a hundred kings. And I promise you that we will always be equals.
Roshani Chokshi (The Star-Touched Queen (The Star-Touched Queen, #1))
I was a bird. I lived a bird's life from birth to death. I was born the thirty-second chick in the Jipu family. I remember everything in detail. I remember breaking out of the shell at birth. But I learned later that my mother had gently cracked the shell first to ease my way. I dozed under my mother's chest for the first few days. Her feathers were so warm and soft! I was strong, so I kicked away my siblings to keep the cozy spot. Just 10 days after I was born, I was given flying lessons. We all had to learn quickly because there were snakes and owls and hawks. My little brothers and sisters, who didn't practice enough, all died. My little sister looked so unhappy when she got caught. I can still see her face. Before I could fly, I hadn't known that our nest was on the second-lowest branch of a big tree. My parents chose the location wisely. Snakes could reach the lowest branch and eagles and hawks could attack us if we lived at the top. We soared through the sky, above mountains and forests. But it wasn't just for fun! We always had to watch out for enemies, and to hunt for food. Death was always nearby. You could easily starve or freeze to death. Life wasn't easy. Once, I got caught in a monsoon. I smacked into a tree and lay bleeding for days. Many of my family and friends died, one after another. To help rebuild our clan, I found myself a female and married her. She was so sweet. She laid many eggs, but one day, a human cut down the tree we lived in, crushing all the eggs and my beloved. A bird's life is an endless battle against death. I survived for many years before I finally met my end. I found a worm at some harvest festival. I came fluttering down. It was a bad mistake. Some big guy was waiting to ambush hungry little birdies like me. I heard my own guts pop. It was clear to me that I was going to die at last. And I wanted to know where I'd go when I died.
Osamu Tezuka (Buddha, Vol. 2: The Four Encounters (Buddha #2))
There were six hundred thousand Indian troops in Kashmir but the pogrom of the pandits was not prevented, why was that. Three and a half lakhs of human beings arrived in Jammu as displaced persons and for many months the government did not provide shelters or relief or even register their names, why was that. When the government finally built camps it only allowed for six thousand families to remain in the state, dispersing the others around the country where they would be invisible and impotent, why was that. The camps at Purkhoo, Muthi, Mishriwallah, Nagrota were built on the banks and beds of nullahas, dry seasonal waterways, and when the water came the camps were flooded, why was that. The ministers of the government made speeches about ethnic cleansing but the civil servants wrote one another memos saying that the pandits were simply internal migrants whose displacement had been self-imposed, why was that. The tents provided for the refugees to live in were often uninspected and leaking and the monsoon rains came through, why was that. When the one-room tenements called ORTs were built to replace the tents they too leaked profusely, why was that. There was one bathroom per three hundred persons in many camps why was that and the medical dispensaries lacked basic first-aid materials why was that and thousands of the displaced died because of inadequate food and shelter why was that maybe five thousand deaths because of intense heat and humidity because of snake bites and gastroenteritis and dengue fever and stress diabetes and kidney ailments and tuberculosis and psychoneurosis and there was not a single health survey conducted by the government why was that and the pandits of Kashmir were left to rot in their slum camps, to rot while the army and the insurgency fought over the bloodied and broken valley, to dream of return, to die while dreaming of return, to die after the dream of return died so that they could not even die dreaming of it, why was that why was that why was that why was that why was that.
Salman Rushdie (Shalimar the Clown)
Get used to it. The weather may feel like science fiction, but the science underlying it is very real and mundane. It takes only a small increase in global average temperatures to have a big effect on weather, because what drives the winds and their circulation patterns on the surface of the earth are differences in temperature. So when you start to change the average surface temperature of the earth, you change the wind patterns—and then before you know it, you change the monsoons. When the earth gets warmer, you also change rates of evaporation—which is a key reason we will get more intense rainstorms in some places and hotter dry spells and longer droughts in others. How can we have both wetter and drier extremes at the same time? As we get rising global average temperatures and the earth gets warmer, it will trigger more evaporation from the soil. So regions that are already naturally dry will tend to get drier. At the same time, higher rates of evaporation, because of global warming, will put more water vapor into the atmosphere, and so areas that are either near large bodies of water or in places where atmospheric dynamics already favor higher rates of precipitation will tend to get wetter. We know one thing about the hydrologic cycle: What moisture goes up must come down, and where more moisture goes up, more will come down. Total global precipitation will probably increase, and the amount that will come down in any one storm is expected to increase as well—which will increase flooding and gully washers. That’s why this rather gentle term “global warming” doesn’t capture the disruptive potential of what lies ahead. “The popular term ‘global warming’ is a misnomer,” says John Holdren. “It implies something uniform, gradual, mainly about temperature, and quite possibly benign. What is happening to global climate is none of those. It is uneven geographically. It is rapid compared to ordinary historic rates of climatic change, as well as rapid compared to the adjustment times of ecosystems and human society. It is affecting a wide array of critically important climatic phenomena besides temperature, including precipitation, humidity, soil moisture, atmospheric circulation patterns, storms, snow and ice cover, and ocean currents and upwellings. And its effects on human well-being are and undoubtedly will remain far more negative than positive. A more accurate, albeit more cumbersome, label than ‘global warming’ is ‘global climatic disruption.’ 
Thomas L. Friedman (Hot, Flat, and Crowded: Why We Need a Green Revolution--and How It Can Renew America)
The strongest monsoon in the last twenty years is raging on Beijing. The plane has not received permission to leave. The planes which have already left Taiyuan are coming back and all flights are on hold waiting for their permission to takeoff. We all have to get out. The monsoon! Not my tube.
Roberto G. Ferrari
The four-month monsoon season ended last week leaving a deficit of 12 per cent. The authorities have called it a below-normal monsoon and the worst in the past five years, but skim the data and the picture seems even more sobering. Nearly one-third of the 36 met divisions in the country have received deficient rainfall, with Haryana, Punjab and Uttar Pradesh — which are major agriculture regions — reporting a 50 per cent deficit.
Anonymous
Giannini discovered that ocean temperatures helped regulate the strength of the African monsoon. What was even more fascinating was how each ocean played a specific role.
Heidi Cullen (The Weather of the Future: Heat Waves, Extreme Storms, and Other Scenes from a Climate-Changed Planet)
Sahel’s rainfall, thanks to El Niño. During an El Niño event, the Sahel is typically expected to experience a drought, whereas during a La Niña event, when the tropical Pacific is cooler, the African monsoon is expected to strengthen and rainfall is expected to be more abundant.
Heidi Cullen (The Weather of the Future: Heat Waves, Extreme Storms, and Other Scenes from a Climate-Changed Planet)
Avoid Calcutta’s un- healthy monsoon. From June until the end of September over a meter and a half of rain bombards the city. Outhouses overflow and contaminate water used for drinking, bathing, and washing cooking utensils. Many of the eight thousand annual deaths caused by cholera and gastrointestinal diseases occur during the rains. Antiquated, silt-clogged sewage pipes drain only a quarter inch of rainwater per hour. Manhole covers are removed to facilitate drainage, and in nonstop rains (more than thirty centimeters, or a foot, in twenty-four hours), open sewers, hidden under water, become booby traps as pedestrians inadvertently plunge into them and drown.
James O'Reilly (Travelers' Tales India: True Stories (Travelers' Tales Guides))
I don’t think carrying an umbrella during monsoons is luck.
Daya Kudari
The Jewel in Her Crown, which showed the old Queen (whose image the children now no doubt confused with the person of Miss Crane) surrounded by representative figures of her Indian Empire: princes, landowners, merchants, moneylenders, sepoys, farmers, servants, children, mothers, and remarkably clean and tidy beggars. The Queen was sitting on a golden throne, under a crimson canopy, attended by her temporal and spiritual aides: soldiers, statesmen and clergy. The canopied throne was apparently in the open air because there were palm trees and a sky showing a radiant sun bursting out of bulgy clouds such as, in India, heralded the wet monsoon. Above the clouds flew the prayerful figures of the angels who were the benevolent spectators of the scene below. Among the statesmen who stood behind the throne one was painted in the likeness of Mr. Disraeli holding up a parchment map of India to which he pointed with obvious pride but tactful humility. An Indian prince, attended by native servants, was approaching the throne bearing a velvet cushion on which he offered a large and sparkling gem. The children in the school thought that this gem was the jewel referred to in the title. Miss Crane had been bound to explain that the gem was simply representative of tribute, and that the jewel of the title was India herself, which had been transferred from the rule of the British East India Company to the rule of the British Crown in 1858, the year after the Mutiny when the sepoys in the service of the Company (that first set foot in India in the seventeenth century) had risen in rebellion, and attempts had been made to declare an old Moghul prince king in Delhi, and that the picture had been painted after 1877, the year in which Victoria was persuaded by Mr. Disraeli to adopt the title Empress of India.
Paul Scott (The Raj Quartet, Volume 1: The Jewel in the Crown)
silence as they crept in towards the island. Hal navigated by the compass,
Wilbur Smith (Monsoon (Courtney Family Adventures))
Trouble in a marriage is like monsoon water accumulating on a flat roof. You don't realize it's up there, but it gets heavier and heavier, until one day, with a great crash, the whole roof falls in on your head.
Salman Rushdie (Shame)
The sky is scrubbed fresh and stark blue by the gone rain, but every trace of that water has evaporated from the earth around them. It feels like a dream, all that rainfall. 'This is a cycle,' she thinks. Every day a fresh horror, and when it's over, this feeling of surreal detachment. A disbelief, almost, in what they just endured. The mind is magical. Human beings are magical.
Jeanine Cummins (American Dirt)
Goats. This was once thought to be an antidote for North Korea’s economic ills. The terrain in the northern portion of the peninsula is mountainous and not suitable for farming. There are no green plots of grass for grazing cows, and therefore no source of dairy products or meat. So, in 1996, the North Koreans started a campaign to breed goats. These mountain animals are a good source of milk and meat; moreover, they feed on the shrubs tucked away high in the rocky terrain. The goat-breeding campaign led to a doubling of the goat population almost overnight, and tripled it within two years. This solved a short-term problem, but it had long-term consequences that were more destructive. The goats completely denuded the areas they inhabited, chewing up every single shrub in sight. This then had the effect of removing the last line of the land’s defense against the annual massive rains. The result? Annual monsoons led to deluges of biblical proportions, which wiped out the little remaining arable land and flooded the coal mines that were a source of energy. This only worsened the chronic food and energy shortages.
Victor Cha (The Impossible State: North Korea, Past and Future)
Cadet, if you keep talking like that,” Sanders said in a voice that could cut through a monsoon and still reach the intended ear. “People are going to think God scooped out your brains and replaced them with rainbows and horse shit.
K.F. Breene (Hunted (The Warrior Chronicles, #2))
There you go. I’ve told you the four thunderstorms—disappointment, frustration, unfairness and isolation. You cannot avoid them, as like the monsoon, they will come into your life at regular intervals. You just need to keep the raincoat handy to not let the spark die. I
Chetan Bhagat (What Young India Wants)
The absence of cowherds and the presence of the tractor have edged out other sounds from many Adivasi lives. The sounds of men waking up to grey monsoon dawns, getting ploughs and yokes ready, and then talking
Madhu Ramnath (Woodsmoke and Leafcups: Autobiographical Footnotes to the Anthropology of the Durwa People)
A lad does not have to be reared like a pig to make him a better seaman.
Wilbur Smith (Monsoon: The Courtney Series 10)
Love is like that girl, who had to drop out of school; Three-and-a-half days each month, Must wear dry grass tied in cloth; In monsoon, the grass is green, So, ash wrapped in cloth, to soak up the blood, seated quietly, alone, book-less.
Malay Roychoudhury (Chhotoloker Kobita)
In the middle of monsoon, I am craving an endless winter.
Nitya Prakash
Fid-mer,” or the evening flyer, is the Somali name for a bat. These little animals are not disturbed in houses, because they keep off flies and mosquitoes, the plagues of the Somali country. Flies abound in the very jungles wherever cows have been, and settle in swarms upon the traveller. Before the monsoon their bite is painful, especially that of the small green species; and there is a red variety called “Diksi as,” whose venom, according to the people, causes them to vomit. The latter abounds in Gulays and the hill ranges of the Berberah country: it is innocuous during the cold season. The mosquito bites bring on, according to the same authority, deadly fevers: the superstition probably arises from the fact that mosquitoes and fevers become formidable about the same time.
Richard Francis Burton (First Footsteps in East Africa, or an Exploration of Harar Volume Two)
Wherever we’re headed, this is what we take with us, I thought. Love in the memories. And many, many ghosts.
Cinelle Barnes (Monsoon Mansion: A Memoir)
The monsoon gave me my first experience of candlelit living, of darkness being larger than our upper-class life.
Cinelle Barnes (Monsoon Mansion: A Memoir)
The months of June and July passed. The monsoons were tardy this year—the nights hinted rain constantly with an aroma in the air, a cooling on the skin, soundless lightning across skies. But when morning came, the sun rose strong again, mocking Agra and its inhabitants. And the days crawled by, brazenly hot, when every breath was an effort, every movement a struggle, every night sweat-stewed. In temples, incantations were offered, the muezzins called the faithful to prayers, their voices melodious and pleading, and the bells of the Jesuit churches chimed. But the gods seemed indifferent. The rice paddies lay ploughed after the pre-monsoon rains, awaiting the seedlings; too long a wait and the ground would grow hard again. A few people moved torpidly in the streets of Agra; only the direst of emergencies had called them from their cool, stone-flagged homes. Even the normally frantic pariah dogs lay panting on doorsteps, too exhausted to yelp when passing urchins pelted them with stones. The bazaars were barren too, shopfronts pulled down, shopkeepers too tired to haggle with buyers. Custom could wait for cooler times. The whole city seemed to have slowed to a halt. The imperial palaces and courtyards were hushed in the night, the corridors empty of footsteps. Slaves and eunuchs plied iridescent peacock feather fans, wiping their perspiring faces with one hand. The ladies of the harem slept under the intermittent breeze of the fans, goblets of cold sherbets flavoured with khus and ginger resting by their sides. Every now and then, a slave would refresh the goblet, bringing in another one filled with new shards of ice. When her mistress awoke, and wake she would many times during the night, her drink would be ready. The ice, carved in huge chunks from the Himalayan mountains, covered with gunnysacks and brought down to the plains in bullock carts, was a blessing for everyone, nobles and commoners alike. But in this heat, ice melted all too soon, disappearing into a puddle of warm water under sawdust and jute. In Emperor Jahangir’s apartments, music floated through the courtyard, stopping and tripping in the still night air as the musicians’ slick fingers slipped on the strings of the sitar.
Indu Sundaresan (The Feast of Roses (Taj Mahal Trilogy, #2))
yes, just another monsoon day out there in the Big City …
Ian McDonald (Out on Blue Six)
Aboli went on.
Wilbur Smith (Monsoon: The Courtney Series 10)
the monsoon rains rained, rained, rained down on the streets of Yu. And he would watch them, and the questions would begin again. So much he did not understand about the condition of being human.
Ian McDonald (Out on Blue Six)
26 March 1958 Nehru reiterated: Let us remember that a school is essentially the teacher, not the building. The teacher, without any apparatus or building, can function as a school. This is an obvious proposition and yet it is ignored. I think the time has come, indeed it came long ago, for us to decide, definitely and positively, to have schools in our village without buildings, and to spend more on the teacher and on equipment. I think we can do without buildings completely for the primary schools, though, of course, a building is desirable where possible. But let us compromise on this issue and have the smallest structure, just to keep books and equipment, the classes being held in the open… Our climate is such that, for the great part of the year, it is easy and indeed healthier to sit in the open or under some shady tree. Perhaps the monsoon period is the only time when it is difficult to sit in the open. Let us have our school holidays during the monsoons. The main thing is the teacher. Let us train him better and give him a higher salary and some amenities. The rest will follow. (JNMF 2010; pp.822–3)
Madhav Godbole (The God Who Failed: An Assessment of Jawaharlal Nehru's Leadership)
A rabbit should be cute, not a full-grown human being.
Anya Wylde (Love Muffin and Chai Latte (The Monsoon #1))
What! Sati was married?!’ ’Yes. That was around ninety years back. It was a political marriage with one of the noble families of the empire. Her husband’s name was Chandandhwaj. She got pregnant and went to the Maika to deliver the child. It was the monsoon season. Unfortunately, the child was stillborn.’ ‘Oh my god!’ said Shiva, empathising with the pain Sati must have felt. ‘But it was worse. On the same day, her husband, who had gone to the Narmada to pray for the safe birth of their child, accidentally drowned. On that cursed day, her life was destroyed.
Anonymous
But first, rice diversified and spread around the world. It is a water-loving grass that reaches up to sixteen feet in flooded fields. However, it does not have to grow in standing water. Its peculiar method of cultivation in rice paddies probably came about when people noticed healthy rice plants growing in flooded fields during the monsoon season. The
Amy Stewart (The Drunken Botanist: The Plants that Create the World's Great Drinks)
Wet {Couplet} Her tears fall on me like monsoon rain; I turn my head to avoid her pain.
Beryl Dov
Can desire and a need that cannot be denied pound through a man's veins in the same way if the woman before him sits demurely draped in domesticity? Can lust become a madness that sinks every sane thought in the mind, can it become an all-consuming thirst that rages through every cell, not to be denied, if the woman sits there with sendur in her hair, legitimately his, to be taken right then, if he so wishes? Can, indeed, a woman chosen by parents and family ever be an object of lust in the same way a woman forbidden to him, a woman with silken hill skin and monsoon hair? No. Of course she cannot.
Mitra Phukan (A Full Night's Thievery: Stories)
It's easy enough to catch a man, I want to tell the girl with the moonlight skin and monsoon hair. Not difficult at all, if you set your mind to it. What is difficult is to sustain the passion, keep the relationship going. Your body will be ravaged, oh yes it will, by that beast, Time. Your wiles, your enticements, will stale. You will become familiar, commonplace, ordinary. Your quickening breath will fail to excite, the circle of your arms will constrict. No, I don't hate you, not at all. Why should I? I see the end drawing near for you, my little sister. And then, as I had always known I would, I, Annapurna, will win.
Mitra Phukan (A Full Night's Thievery: Stories)
What the four seasons of the year mean to the European, the one season of monsoon means to the Indian.
Khushwant Singh (I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale)
In less than three human life spans, we went from a world in which a single expensive, blurry, black-and-white photograph astonished people to one in which cheap color video made instantly available all over the planet does not. For the advance of humanity, this is a wondrous thing. For the promise it offers each individual to learn and grow, it is magnificent. And yet. And yet the humans living amid this deluge of information have brains that believe, somewhere in their deepest recesses, that an image of our children is our children, that a piece of fudge shaped like dog poo is dog poo, and that a daydream about winning the lottery makes it more likely we will win the lottery. We have brains that, in line with the Anchoring Rule, use the first available number as the basis for making an estimate about something that has absolutely nothing to do with the number. This is not helpful at a time when we are pelted with numbers like raindrops in a monsoon.
Daniel Gardner (The Science of Fear: How the Culture of Fear Manipulates Your Brain)
Transition occurred not only in Neha’s life. Kovai also transitioned from sweltering summers with extreme temperatures as high as 40 degrees to monsoon madness with the heavy downpour drenching everyone and everything in her line of approach to not so chilly romantic winters offering a pleasant relief to weather-beaten residents.
Neetha Joseph (Pneuma)
This is one of those big, fat paperbacks, intended to while away a monsoon or two, which, if thrown with a good overarm action, will bring a water buffalo to its knees.
Nancy Banks-Smith
He looked utterly bewildered. Well, what did he expect, after the power he’d given her? He couldn’t compare a woman to a torrentially beautiful monsoon, and then look surprised that he’d gotten wet.
Tessa Dare (A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove, #2))
The monsoon had finally come, blowing all rational thought asunder. It was a living thing—a monster from a child’s nightmare, a seething black mountain range of cumulonimbus crawling with giant electric spiders, a dark and angry spirit snorting fire. I stood naked in the deluge, drinking in the cool darkness until the darkness overtook me.
Tod A (Banging the Monkey)
Mama decided against vaccines, appalled by the thought of seeing her already-unpretty baby lanced in her fatless thighs.
Cinelle Barnes (Monsoon Mansion: A Memoir)
It's fifteen hundred miles to Ankh-Morpork,‘ he said. "We've got three hundred and sixty-three elephants, fifty carts of forage, the monsoon's about to break and we're wearing... we're wearing... sort of things, like glass, only dark... dark glass things on our eyes...
Terry Pratchett (Moving Pictures (Discworld, #10; Industrial Revolution, #1))
THE TAILINGS OF the monsoon season moved across the sun that evening, darkening and wetting the land and lighting the sky with electricity that quivered and disappeared between the buttes and the clouds.
James Lee Burke (The New Iberia Blues (Dave Robicheaux #22))
The more he tried to save our empire, the more he sank into the middle-aged man’s abyss: failure, regret, and shame.
Cinelle Barnes (Monsoon Mansion: A Memoir)
It Happened Long Ago” She said, “Why not forget it? It happened long ago!” The deepest wounds, cut to the heart, Will always heal slow. The nightmare of the Mekong, Of death, despair and fear, Could not be left in Vietnam. It’s fresh. It’s crisp. It’s here. My body’s strong. My mind is sound. I suffer from no pain, But once a man has been to war, He’s never quite the same. For I know war for what it is. No glory in the fight. It’s friends who die, and crippled kids, And voices crying in the night. I know the chill of monsoon rain, The heat of tropic sun, The loneliness and heartache, The power of a gun. For some it never happened, And most will never know. Except for those who fought the war, It happened long ago.
Terry M. Sater (The Nightmare of the Mekong: A True HIstory of Love, Family and the War in Vietnam)
Wash out the darkness like the scarlet sun - be the cloud and run towards the thirsty land to drench it with your soothing monsoon - be the breeze and share happiness with others beyond all petty selfishness.
Abhijit Naskar (When Humans Unite: Making A World Without Borders)
When our life becomes unpredictable and uncertain, we pray as we can’t predict the important events of life. If you are in a business or profession where luck plays an important role, you regularly pray to God for good luck. Students pray for good luck before their examinations. The villagers pray for a good, timely monsoon or adequate supply of electricity.
Awdhesh Singh (Myths are Real, Reality is a Myth)
where you can bring a single firefly home from the junglewalk, so he can preside over your ceremony of touching and the phasing moon, who has a name for his every moodswing in my language, can draw the spasming curtain of a monsoon cloud.
Lakshmi Bharadwaj
They took me to the nearest hospital, Santo Niño, where the lower class received medical care.
Cinelle Barnes (Monsoon Mansion: A Memoir)
It was a day of sun and shadow. That rarest of monsoon days when sunshine could suddenly streak through the mass of dark clouds to dance on the hills and rivers below. A day for surprises. I told myself I was ready for them.
Nandini Bajpai (Starcursed)
At breakfast, Mama didn’t talk about other people—not her aerobics friends, her cocktail party friends, her doctor friends, nor her sisters. Instead she talked about my hair, how pretty it was when it was up in a bun, and how it accentuated my jaw and forehead, the very facial features I got from her. She also talked about my cheekbones—which I got from Papa—how they were high but friendly, and how on them a kind smile could hang.
Cinelle Barnes (Monsoon Mansion: A Memoir)
I don’t know about the universe, but I’ll make a pact with you. I hereby promise that I’ll always dance in the rain at least once, in every one of my monsoons.
Gregory David Roberts (The Mountain Shadow)
Her parents came from a Philippine province called Bicol,
Cinelle Barnes (Monsoon Mansion: A Memoir)
We stood in front of that hill as if it were an altar, a consecrated knoll displaying the colonizer’s gifts to the bloodline: Christianity, education, and rank.
Cinelle Barnes (Monsoon Mansion: A Memoir)
Love is better known by a person who eagerly waits for monsoon, not by the one who keeps on selling and buying umbrella before the rainfall.
mahatma Sanny
Laura hits the End button on her phone and tosses it into her messenger bag. She mumbles to herself as she shoves on her shoes and belts her raincoat. “Yeah, sure Aunt Marge. No problem. I’ll be happy to pick up coffee for your neighbor in the middle of a monsoon.” She sighs, unable to hold onto her indignation. Her aunt’s description of Austin hits way too close to home. Just like Marge knew it would.
Roseanne Beck (Talk to Me)
This market surging with sound of stream slogged by monsoon rain paints its picture with each stroke of speech.
Suman Pokhrel
The world, I dare say, is quite accommodating toward my plans in a way. The world falls, breaks, declines, and retreats, as if to make way for my plans. The world is rife with wards, and as relentless desires flood the world, people grow simpler and poorer, and finally disappear. We would have to come up with a different name for people of a world like that. I wait, bored, for the world to collapse on its own, like an eroded mound after a monsoon.
Ch'oe Yun (Mannequin)
Scarlett Mistry supposed there were natural disasters everywhere. But it was all so very inconvenient. When she was a child, her father had gone apoplectic over a hurricane that had flattened one of their multi-million-dollar high-rises in Miami Beach. A landslide in Vail had once collapsed the roof of a Mistry Hotels chalet. And her mother was constantly threatening to sell off the property in New Orleans before the levees gave way for good. Even in her family's native Gujarat, India, there were terrible floods when the monsoons came. Property was a risky way to make a living, in Scarlett's opinion - not that she'd ever say as much to her parents. She'd long ago decided on an alternative route to fame and fortune, one free from the uncertainty of climate change and its unpredictable effect on the real estate market. Unfortunately, she hadn't factored in power outages. So instead of being able to check any of her feeds, she was stuck sitting in a wingback chair, her phone as dead as a brick in her hand, and listening to Orchid pepper the townie with questions about how bad the storm had gotten. He wasn't big on details, that Vaughn Green. Not that Scarlett needed Vaughn's opinion on how screwed they all were. After all, she was spending the afternoon sitting under a quilt by a fire like some sort of pioneer girl.
Diana Peterfreund (In the Hall with the Knife (Clue Mystery, #1))