When Monsoon Roars Louder
Monsoons once meant that one extra holiday on a rainy day—and cuddling under my grandmother’s soft navari saree, which became my favourite makeshift quilt. I remember walking back from school, pausing with friends to share a freshly roasted corn by the roadside.
The season brought with it long drives and short escapes to the outskirts of Mumbai to watch the Sahyadris come alive.
The rains had a rhythm. They meant life. Renewal. New beginnings. Not loss.
Now, each monsoon arrives with a warning. Flash floods. Landslides. Overflowing rivers sweeping away homes—and lives. A single day’s rainfall often breaks seasonal records.
Monsoons are still magical. But their magic feels different. They are changing the world around us. And this isn’t just our story—it’s become a global one. A story of every season, every experience we once cherished—be it a walk in the forest, a trek to the hills, or even something as rooted as growing crops.
Climate Change Knocks
In a recent conversation on climate change, a participant shared something that stayed with me: “I have met fishermen who no longer want their children to venture into the sea. Instead, they dream of their kids working in cities, in corporate jobs.”
The sea, once a source of identity and income, now feels like a threat. Generations of knowledge—of wind, water, and tide—are being left behind. And this, too, is climate change.
It’s not activism. It’s reality. It’s in our kitchens, at our doorsteps, on our roads, and even at those beautiful destinations pinned on our travel wishlists.
The conversation also opened my eyes to something I hadn’t fully considered before—the cultural impact of climate change.
Yes, India has pledged to reduce its dependence on fossil fuels. In Mumbai, the municipal corporation is nudging eateries and bakeries to stop using coal. But that also means reimagining our beloved biryanis, kebabs, rotis and breads—without the charcoal flavour that defined them.
In rural India, smokeless chullahs and solar panels are slowly making their way into kitchens that have always cooked over open wood fires.
While these changes are necessary, they bring up uncomfortable but important questions:
- Are these communities emotionally and economically prepared for this transition?
- What happens to the existing supply chains built around traditional methods?
- Are we offering them enough support to create sustainable, alternative livelihoods?
As I sat with these questions, Mahatma Gandhi’s saying became more profound
“What we are doing to the forests of the world is but a mirror reflection of what we are doing to ourselves and to one another.”
We’re not just uprooting forests. We’re uprooting traditional knowledge systems. Generational skills. Ways of life. And the cost of this transition isn’t just economic. It’s cultural. Social. And deeply personal.
In chasing growth, social acceptance, speed, and convenience, are we losing something essential?
Have we become strangers to ourselves—too afraid to face our inner voice, uncomfortable with stillness, disconnected from the quiet strength of nature?
Is the restlessness we see in our environment a reflection of our inner unrest? I may not have the right answers. But I left that conversation wanting to pause. To reflect.
Nurture Winning Thoughts !
