Hail SNAP!
I'm Michael.
And welcome to your sleep story.
The rainiest place on earth.
I'll be your narrator.
As we visit Morsimran in the Karzi Hills of North East India,
Recognised as the rainiest place on earth.
The rain has not stopped for days and it will not stop tonight.
We're about to take a slow walk through the village.
Past the huts and bamboo bridges and the soft light of lanterns.
With thunder somewhere far away in the hills and the rain constantly coming down.
There's no drama.
There's no plot to follow.
Just the rain,
The thunder,
And the nighttime ambience of walking around this amazing village.
But before we get started.
.
.
Let's prepare ourselves to get cozy.
Settle in however feels good for you.
Shift a little.
Get comfortable and warm.
Let your weight go.
Into the mattress.
The cushion wherever you are.
Feel your shoulders drop.
Your jaw softened.
And your hands rest loose.
The day is behind you now.
All the noise The Unfinished Things the small frustrations.
Take them away.
This is your time.
To slow the mind down.
And relax.
You don't need to concentrate.
You don't need to follow a plot or remember anything.
Just let the words come.
And let them carry you where they will.
Take a deep breath.
And let's get started.
The path that you are on is narrow.
Wet stone underfoot.
Smooth from a hundred years of footsteps.
Moss along the edges.
The rain falls steady and straight.
The way it falls here every night.
It taps on the wide green leaves of the wild banana plants.
It runs down the trunks of the areca palms it collects in every dip and hollow of the stone path and runs away in small bright lines towards the slope.
The hills rise around you.
Dog green.
Almost black in the failing light.
Mist sits low across them.
The tops are gone.
Cloud and ridge and trees blur into one shape.
Somewhere far away.
Beyond the second ridge,
A soft roll of thunder.
It carries for a long time.
And then it fades.
You walk slowly.
And the path bends.
Ferns lean over the edges of the stone.
Heavy with water.
A wide flat leaf somewhere off the path makes a deeper note as a big drop strikes it.
Than another.
The rain does not change.
The rain has been like this for hours.
For days.
For as long as anyone here can remember.
Ahead.
Through the rain and the mist.
The first warm light.
A single lantern.
Hung beneath the eaves of a low wooden house.
The lantern sways slightly as you draw closer.
The glasses,
Folks.
Inside the glass,
The small steady flame leans one way.
Than the other.
The light it makes is yellow.
Almost orange and it falls onto wet planking and a low wooden step.
The house is small.
Warden walls dark with rain.
A roof of corrugated tin.
Slow flow.
And at its edges.
The rain comes off in a continuous line nothing drops.
Put in a thin,
Moving sheet.
The sound of the rain on the tin.
It's the loudest sound here.
Is steady.
And it's everywhere.
You pass beneath the eaves.
For a moment.
The rain stops touching me.
Only the sound continues.
Drumming above your head.
Then you step out again into the open.
And the rain returns to your shoulders.
To the back of your hands.
To your head.
The next house stands a few steps further on.
A larger one.
With a thatched roof this time.
Heavy and dark.
Dripping at every edge.
Two small square windows,
Both lit.
The glow inside is dim and steady.
A kerosene lamp.
Set well back from the window.
The light passes through a thin cloth curtain and falls onto the path in two soft squares.
Smoke rises from a hole in the roof.
What smell.
It catches the wet air and does not rise far.
It hangs in the lane.
The smell is sweet.
And slightly sharp.
Pine,
Perhaps.
Or whatever was dry enough to burn.
The path drops a little.
And the sound of the stream begins.
Faints at first beneath the rain.
And clever.
Than everywhere.
The bridge appears.
It's bamboo.
Blushed with cane.
The deck of it is woven.
Slats laid close together.
The dog is dumped.
The two thick bamboo poles run along the sides as handrails.
From them.
Thinner canes hang in loops.
Weather blackened.
Are knotted at the joints.
You step onto the bridge.
The bamboo gives slightly under your foot.
It is very wet.
And it has been wet for as long as it has stood here.
It will not dry until the dry season comes.
Months from now.
The wood is dark with moss in places.
Pale and stripped in others.
Where many hands have touched the handrail.
The stream is below.
Not the small stream it might be in another month.
At a fast brown rush.
Fall to its banks.
White water curls around the stones in the middle.
The water carries leaves.
Twigs.
Fragments of thought.
They appear.
Vanish.
And appear again further down.
You stop at the middle of the bridge.
And the rain falls on the stream.
The sound of it is different here.
Heavier.
Baker.
The river makes a constant low note beneath the steady tap of the rain on the bamboo deck.
Than a flash.
Far off behind the ridge.
The hills light for one moment.
And then they are dark again.
The thunder takes a long time to come.
When it comes.
Is a soft,
Slow rumble.
Loads of the ground.
More felt than heard.
It rolls away into the next valley.
I'm this girl.
We stand a little longer on the bridge.
The rain falls.
The stream runs.
The bamboo gives very faintly under your feet.
On the far side,
The path rises again.
Stone steps.
Broad and shallow.
Slick with rain.
Moss thick at their edges.
You climb slowly.
The handrail is a slim bamboo pole.
Set into the stone at each end.
Cold to the touch.
Smooth.
At the top.
The village opens.
A loose cluster of houses.
A few wider lanes.
Several narrower paths winding away between the buildings.
Lantern lights here and there.
Some windows lit,
Some dark.
The houses sit close together.
Ease nearly touching across the narrowest lanes.
You walk on.
And the rain continues Your feet are wet now.
The cloth of your shoes heavy with it.
The cold has not come.
The air is warm and thick.
Wets on the skin.
But not cold.
On the one eve.
A row of knops,
Five or six of them.
Leaning against the wall of a house.
They're shaped like the shell of a great beetle.
Woven from split bamboo.
Lined with banana leaf.
Each one is large enough to cover the back and the shoulders of a person walking.
He's bent forward against the rain.
The leaves have darkened with use.
Some on you.
SOMARO The green faded.
The bamboo grave.
A dog lies beneath the same eve.
Brown.
Thin.
And curled tight against the wall.
It does not look at you as you pass.
And it's breathing is slow.
A little further on,
A cat sits on a wooden step,
Just inside the shelter of a roof,
And it watches the rain.
His eyes are half closed and it does not move.
A door stands open.
Only a little.
Light spills out.
More orange than yellow.
Warm against the wet boards of the porch.
You glance in as you pass.
It's a small room.
With a low seedling.
A floor of packed earth,
Swept clean.
A clay hearth in the corner.
The fire is low.
A kettle hangs from a black iron hook above the embers.
And the kettle is dented and dark.
Steam rises from its spout in a thin line.
A woman sits beside the hearth on a low wooden stool.
She's wrapped in a checked cloth,
Red and black.
She's pouring water from a tin cup into a kettle.
She does not look up.
Her hands continue to move slowly.
A small child sleeps on a mat in the far corner of the room.
A folded cloth covers her up to the shoulders.
And her face is turned to the wall.
The door does not close as you pass.
The light stays where it is.
The kettle steams.
And the rain falls on the tin roof above.
The lane ahead of you narrows.
And the houses lean closer.
Above.
Where the eaves nearly meet.
The rain falls in a single,
Narrow strip down the middle.
The sound of it changes again.
Closer.
Tighter.
The drumming on the tin roofs come from both sides now,
And overhead.
A small shrine stands in a niche,
Cut into a stone wall.
A flat stone for an altar.
Two short candles on it,
Both lit.
Both flickering inside the shelter of the niche.
A red cloth tied around the stone.
A small dish of rice.
And the rice is wet.
The candles burn anyway.
Sheltered by the lip of the stone above.
You continue on.
And the lane bends.
There's a wooden bench built against the wall of a house.
And a man sits there,
Smoking a cigar.
The tip of the cigar is a small,
Red point in the dim.
The smoke catches in the wet air.
And curls up under the eve and disappears.
He nods at you slowly as you pass.
And you acknowledge.
And walk on.
The rain has not eased.
It has not strengthened.
It is the same rain it was an hour ago.
There you go.
Even a week ago.
Far away in the distance.
Another flash above the mountains.
This one a little closer.
The light comes through the gap at the end of the lane.
And for one moment everything is clear.
The wet stone,
The wood,
The puddles,
The thin streams running between the houses.
Then it is dim again.
And the thunder comes.
A longer roll this time.
Still soft.
And it moves down the valley before it is gone.
The path widens.
The house is thin.
Ahead the land falls away.
And you stop at the edge.
Below are some rice paddies.
Terraces cuts into the slope.
Each one wider than the one above.
Each one filled with water.
The water is dark.
But it catches what little light there is.
Faint silver.
The terraces fall away down the slope.
Until the mist takes them.
And you cannot see any further.
Beyond the padis are the hells.
Mist all over them.
Their tops invisible.
A line of pine forest along one ridge.
Dark and black against the slightly less dark sky.
Another flash.
The hells appearing full for one moment.
Every Ridge.
Every fold.
The pines.
The mist that lies in the valleys between them.
Then,
Dark again.
The thunder comes a long time later,
Soft and rumbling.
The rain falls on the puttees below.
The sound of it on still water is different from the sound of it on stone,
Or on tin,
Or on the bamboo of the bridge.
It is softer,
All around you and constant.
You turn around and the lane is behind you again.
The lanterns of the village,
Soft and few.
And you begin to walk back.
The man on the bench is gone.
Only the bench remains.
But what dark with rain.
The shrine still burns with both candles.
And the wet rice is still there in it's small dish.
The lane widens.
The doorway of the house with the cats on it is closed now.
Only a thin line of light shows beneath it.
The dog under the eaves does not move.
But the cat is gone.
We walk slowly.
Your feet are heavy with water.
The path is just as wet as it was.
The mist sits in the lane.
It has not lifted.
And who will not live tonight.
You reach the steps.
And head down them.
Slowly.
One at a time.
The bamboo handrails still very cool.
Still smiling the sound of the stream rising again as you descend.
You reach the bridge and step onto it.
The bamboo gives a little and the water rushes below as you begin to cross.
On the far side,
The path turns back up towards the first houses you passed.
The lantern is still there beneath the heath.
The flame still leaning one way,
Then the other.
The glass still fucked up.
You reach the thatched house.
With the two small square windows.
The kerosene lamp set well back.
The light through the cloth curtains.
Falling on the path in two soft squares.
The wood smoke still continues to rise.
Me hangs in the lane.
You walk on.
And the houses fall behind.
The lantern light grows fainter.
And disappears behind a bend of stone.
You reach the path again with wet stone and moss at the edges.
Ferns leaning over and the wild banana leaves catching the heavy drops.
The sound of the rain is all around you.
It falls on the path.
On the leaves.
On the slope.
On the roofs of the houses behind you.
On the paddies below.
On the stream.
On the bridge.
On every leaf of every tree.
On every hill.
In every direction.
It does not stop.
The dark settles around you.
The rain settles around you.
The village is somewhere behind,
Soft and warm,
The lanterns burning low.
You walk on slowly.
And see the soft glow from the lantern at the hut that you're staying in.
Your bed waiting for a nice restful sleep.
As you step onto the porch and take refuge from the rain.
You turn around and look at the scenery behind you.
The mist over the tops of the mountains.
The calmness of everything around you.
And the sound of the rain.
Creating a peaceful atmosphere and it feels like the perfect moment.
To have a well rested sleep.
