I was watching the clouds pile up over Lum Shyllong this afternoon, and I remembered something my grandfather used to say—that when the first monsoon drops fall on the warmed earth, it’s the ground itself taking a breath. That’s the smell that makes me get out of bed at 4 in the morning to check the betel vines, even on days when the market will be empty. We can’t pray the rain to come at the right time anymore; I’ve seen the records from the agriculture office in Shillong, and the patterns are shifting like a wrestler changing his grip. But I still keep a little patch of native herbs my father planted, because some things you recover by hand, not by waiting for anyone else to fix it.
#mitti-wrestling
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