Then suddenly, the world would go dark, the lights would be switched on as the great cloud engulfed us, and wild exultation would overcome us (they say this is due to the presence of negative ions).

The great machine guns of the heavens would open up with a fusillade of silver bullets and from the base of the hill, you could hear a great roaring cheer rise, as children, men and women living in the tenements below would emerge and exuberantly dance.

What was and is wonderful to watch is the change: Plants, trees and foliage, tinder-box dry, droopy and desiccated, beige, brown and tan, seemingly lifeless, suddenly wear the faintest flush of green and then explode with emerald growth, lush and rampant.

A great place to be when the monsoons broke was the beach. (No getting into the sea, of course.) Now as you wandered on a gleaming varnished beach at low tide, the wind would buffet you in the back like a boisterous buddy and the shrapnel from the kamikaze waves hurling themselves on razor-sharp rocks would make you gasp with delight.

You’d be drenched, windblown and bedraggled after your walk, but your eyes shone and your smile couldn’t be wider!

Monsoon picnics at the lakes at the Sanjay Gandhi National Park (Tulsi, Vihar and Powai) at the expense of college, was another big draw.

The lakes would gleam, a dark silver, in the dim cloud light, excited streams would rush down the verdant slopes to get to them and you could walk right around them, noticing the odd fish (or crocodile?) leap out.

The foliage was lush and verdant and leant heavily over you and from dead branches and fragrant earth, toadstools and bracket mushrooms would appear like magic.

By contrast, the monsoon in Delhi, where we moved, was a big no-no, a ‘nonsoon’ really! I remember asking one year — in September — when the monsoon broke in Delhi and was told, ‘oh it’s over — don’t you remember that shower we had in July?’

But there were compensations. A rainy morning on the Northern Ridge, where around 200 golden bullfrogs were serenading their lady loves in a water-filled ditch — ‘berrek-berrek-berrek’ — puffing up their blue cheek pouches like Satchmo, and then indulging in kickboxing brawls, and orgies which would have the moral police go bananas.

Listening to the dragon roar of the Yamuna, as it rushed past like an express train, carrying all before it, chocolate brown and frothy, even threatening to enter your home — so different from the still listless body of water it had been just a month before.

Sloshing around in ankle-deep water at Sultanpur jheel, watching pairs of Sarus cranes, carefully usher their young, to the middle of the lake — away from the reach of the stray dogs that circled the banks.

Even better were trips to the hills. Now you were one with the clouds as they softly enveloped you, snuffing out the valleys through which they had entered and the outline of the pine-ridged mountains across.

The pattering on the slate roof would deepen to a consistent thrumming as the rain came down, steadily for hours at a time, even as you uneasily wondered about how many landslides this might cause.

Afterwards, when the rain stopped and all that was left was the plink-plonk of drops falling from the leaves, the long sweet fluting of the Blue-whistling thrush, or the Streaked laughing thrush as they informed the world that they were alive and well.

Step out into the drenched garden and every petal and leaf would be pearled with raindrops, not to mention the wings of dragonflies and butterflies, which now resembled exquisite pieces of jewellery. Leeches would hump along the wet grass and latch on and frogs would exuberantly leap out of your way.

And then of course, that photographer’s favourite: pearled orb webs, hanging like so many necklaces, guarded by an eight-legged ogre!

As global warming continues relentlessly, the monsoons are getting increasingly violent and unpredictable. Delhi recently all but drowned after a three-hour deluge and both Chennai and Mumbai have been through the same trauma in the past. We’ve built over vital catchment areas and floodplains and continue to do so.

The warming seas are evaporating ever greater quantities of water, which are then dumped unceremoniously over our cities and towns, which are unprepared to receive it.

In India, certainly, nearly all living things plan their lives according to the monsoon: the fruiting and flowering of plants and crops, the breeding and migration of insects, reptiles, birds, and animals — upon which we too depend.

We can — and should of course — inure ourselves from water shortages by creating enough storage facilities but what we can’t do without halting global warming, is to tell the rain when to start and when to stop.

It’s a pity because now we can only look forward to the monsoon with apprehension rather than delight; that single annual event that could make the entire nation come out on the streets and dance.