No one really remembered when monsoon season had started. But we all noticed the change in everyday life. We only used the word "dry" to signify the lack of something. There was night and there was almost night. Both damp. Both without sun, folding in on each other like what I imagine a nuclear winter to be. A nuclear winter that still holds the heat of sub-atomic exlposion.
The air was always visable: mist rolling in over the mountain to settle in the winding alleyways of KSU, fog and steam rising from the hot and congested streets, and breath condensing and sinking like dry ice when it meets the monsoon morning air. I looked out of my window to decide if I needed an umbrella for the walk to work today. What was I thinking? I always need an umbrella during monsoon season. But I was hoping I could get by without it.
Across the street, I saw an ajumma standing on her enclosed balcony. It looked as though she was hanging laundry. But the clothes did not have the tell tale signs of being freshly spun by the washing machine. I could make out the creases that come from being folded and put away in a closet or on a shelf. She was hang-washing.
The was so much moisture in the air that you could hang your dry clothes and the water from the morning breeze would condense on every fiber of the fabric. Drops of water slowly formed and fell to the floor, taking with them the stale last season smell that clothes collect when neglected for months at a time. I watched her hang the laundry for some time. My mind wandered to Thailand and Cambodia. Then to Laos and Vietnam. Better buy a raincoat I thought. Then I grabbed my umbrella and headed for the door.
I don't remember when monsoon season started, but I hope it ends soon.
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