The fascination for most things begins in childhood and resurfaces when you come into your own. Every summer, I remember my father, weary of the Calcutta heat, standing gazing at the skies, predicting that the southwest monsoon was on its way from Kerala. I would imagine torrential rains and a land washed green, vast paddy fields flourishing under darkened skies. In my mind, it became a canvas of my imagination — of rain, clouds, and endless fields.






