Barsha elegy

It was Hegel, if I remember rightly, who said that one understands the meaning of something only when it is a thing of the past. Or at least nearing its end. It's a sobering thought, pointing up yet again the limitation of the human mind. To me, it also implies an inevitable nexus between understanding and elegy. The mood naturally becomes elegiac, as one contemplates the inexorable physico-chemical processes that are wreaking havoc on the earth's fragile ecosystem – especially when one lives in a small low-lying, overpopulated country bordering a slowly rising sea. If, as calculations indicate, a third of Bangladesh eventually goes under water, where will the millions of eco-refugees go? Will they perish in a Malthusian apocalypse? And with the climate going haywire, as has been predicted, will the remaining population in the remaining tracts of land be able to lead the kind of life that Bengalis have lived for millennia?

The most palpable signs of what is to come are said to be the increasingly frequent meteorological glitches, such as droughts and delayed rains. And so, as the monsoon played truant for a month this year, my thoughts turned to its significance in our lives. The monsoon, of course, largely determines the climate of the whole of Southasia. Like the six seasons, we share the monsoon with the rest of the Subcontinent. But we owe more to it than any other part of the region.