On Sunday, the monsoon hit Kerala of its own volition. Since then, the meteorological department has demurred as usual and altered its predictions. Meanwhile, the sweaty thousands who fervently prayed for the rains are busy soaking up the last vestiges of fiery sunshine.

Given the sway it holds over our lives, one is tempted to think of the monsoon as having a mind of its own, resistant to change and doing just as it pleases.
Musicians, however, tend to disagree. The rains might be obdurate, but they seldom resist the overtures of a perfectly rendered raga.
The monsoon heralds lower temperatures, greener trees and a surfeit of music, which deals with the rains. One familiar visitor is the burgeoning family of malhar-based ragas.
Speaking about the significance of the word malhar, Subhra Guha, a Hindustani classical music exponent says, “The word malhar is made up of mal, which is debris or unwanted garbage and har, which means to destroy. The rains mirror this quality of malhar by sweeping away all that is unclean. They end the tyranny of summer and give the world a fresh face.”
Carnatic flautist Sikkil Mala Chandrasekhar shares a tale from her karnaparampara — stories passed down for generations through oral transmission. “Muthuswami Dikshithar composed the famous song Ananda Amrithakarshini in raga Amrithavarshini. It is said that he was attending his brother’s wedding at Ettayapuram during a period of severe drought. He composed the song after offering prayers to his family deity. When he sang it, it started pouring with great intensity. In the song, the words ‘salilam varshya varshya’ indicate pouring rain. But when the rains became too heavy, Dikshithar would sing ‘salilam sthambaya sthambaya’, which stopped the rains. Thus, raga Amrithavarshini came to be associated with the rains.”
The raga Miyan ki Malhar is ascribed to Tansen, the legendary singer in Akbar’s court. It is said that he could bring down the rains by singing Megh Malhar and set things on fire by singing raga Deepak.
The romance of monsoon ragas is a popular theme bolstering many Kangra miniature paintings.
Across cultures and communities in India, there exists a rich treasure trove of folk music dealing with various aspects of the monsoon — to welcome the rains, to pray for them, or to beseech them to stop when threatened by floods. One good example is the popular rain song Ghanan ghanan from the film Lagaan.
Guha, who will present an evening’s worth of monsoon ragas at an upcoming concert in Mumbai, speaks of kajri, which originates in Eastern Uttar Pradesh. Kajri is traditionally sung in the Hindu calendar months of Ashadh and Shravan (July-August).
It is passed down by village women and is very pleasing to the ears. Kajri often deals with themes of separation. Guha quotes from a popular kajri — ‘ghiri ghiri aayi kaari badariya, piya nahi aaye main ka karu guiyan (dark clouds overwhelm the sky, my beloved is not here, what do I do, o friend?)’
It is believed that the vibrations created by certain combinations of notes trigger changes in the weather and other natural immutable factors. Guha feels that music no longer has this magical effect on nature because contemporary musicians are unable to sing the ragas perfectly enough.
She says, “I feel that the story of Tansen’s Megh Malhar bringing down the rains must be true, for those notes, if perfectly played or sung, are capable of inducing a cooling effect. Nowadays, we are unable to touch precise microtones or srutis like the musicians of yore. That is why the rain does not come pouring down when we sing!” But there are incidents that seek to provoke the suspension of disbelief.
In 1982, Carnatic violinist Kunnakudi Vaidyanathan played raga Amrithavarshini to invoke the rains when certain parts of Tamil Nadu were facing drought-like conditions. He did so at the behest of M.G. Ramachandran.
Coincidence or not, it is hard to say; but Vaidyanathan, a strong believer in the therapeutic effects of ragas, managed to please the rain deities when he performed at Red Hills, one of the main reservoirs supplying Chennai with water.
Chandrasekhar feels she might have fleetingly invoked the rain deities while playing raga Amrithavarshini on certain occasions. She recalls a concert during Chennai’s December Music Season, where a clear sky gave way to a rainy day after she played Amrithavarshini. But she is quick to concur that one can never speak of such instances with absolute certainty.
She elaborates, “It may be a coincidence, but when an artist plays or sings Amrithavarshini with devotion, the clouds shed a drop or two. The vibrations emanating from the swaras and the and the mood created by the artist can prevail upon the weather and induce climatic change. Music's influence extends beyond what we manage to see and hear.”