Free Essays on Monsoon

Dust and yellow mustard fields. Single file coconut trees lining the muddy edges of rice paddies. Green shoots of rice in watery mud. The grainy edges of the Indian sun. Barefoot men bent under baskets full of sugar cane, walking single file. Heat beating down in wobbled yellow lines. And dust. On a long ride, scenery through the window of a car repeats and reverses itself: India came in flips and flashes, as the big, black car streamed across West Bengal, from Calcutta to the coastal town of Digha. We were still miles away from a summer holiday at the sea-beach. My legs were stuck to each other. Sweat dripped from my collarbone to my waist. Late August in a tropical country emits a feeling of endings. The heat should fade. The monsoon rains sputter. It is the last chance to lie under a fan, draw a picture, have orange biscuits and tea with milk. That summer I had just turned twelve. I played hide and seek and tag on the rooftop of our house in Calcutta in my bare feet. I hiked up my long skirt so I could run faster†¦ and let the skin of my bare legs flash for one extra second. The boys next door would pretend not to watch. And I liked how it made me want to smile. I was young enough to play. I was old enough to play. There was no difference. I spent the ride to Digha hanging out the window. Our parents were behind us somewhere. There were only children in this car, and our driver blasted the radio for us. â€Å"People people everywhere, everywhere, everywhere,† a Bengali rapper spit in English, and we sang along. When we hit the towns and got caught between a cow, a motorcycle, and street vendors with bright plastic baskets, my friend, Amrita, and I had no complaints. We tossed sultry smiles and waved. I had light skin and hair. Amrita had my American sunglasses perched on her narrow sixteen-year-old face. The young men defiantly fixed their eyes on ours. We laughed and ducked down on the hot vinyl seats. The plastic felt like it ... Free Essays on Monsoon Free Essays on Monsoon Dust and yellow mustard fields. Single file coconut trees lining the muddy edges of rice paddies. Green shoots of rice in watery mud. The grainy edges of the Indian sun. Barefoot men bent under baskets full of sugar cane, walking single file. Heat beating down in wobbled yellow lines. And dust. On a long ride, scenery through the window of a car repeats and reverses itself: India came in flips and flashes, as the big, black car streamed across West Bengal, from Calcutta to the coastal town of Digha. We were still miles away from a summer holiday at the sea-beach. My legs were stuck to each other. Sweat dripped from my collarbone to my waist. Late August in a tropical country emits a feeling of endings. The heat should fade. The monsoon rains sputter. It is the last chance to lie under a fan, draw a picture, have orange biscuits and tea with milk. That summer I had just turned twelve. I played hide and seek and tag on the rooftop of our house in Calcutta in my bare feet. I hiked up my long skirt so I could run faster†¦ and let the skin of my bare legs flash for one extra second. The boys next door would pretend not to watch. And I liked how it made me want to smile. I was young enough to play. I was old enough to play. There was no difference. I spent the ride to Digha hanging out the window. Our parents were behind us somewhere. There were only children in this car, and our driver blasted the radio for us. â€Å"People people everywhere, everywhere, everywhere,† a Bengali rapper spit in English, and we sang along. When we hit the towns and got caught between a cow, a motorcycle, and street vendors with bright plastic baskets, my friend, Amrita, and I had no complaints. We tossed sultry smiles and waved. I had light skin and hair. Amrita had my American sunglasses perched on her narrow sixteen-year-old face. The young men defiantly fixed their eyes on ours. We laughed and ducked down on the hot vinyl seats. The plastic felt like it ...