Bordoisila is an Assamese word native to the state of Assam, India. It is a wild wind, that marks the incoming monsoon season, as it is accompanied with heavy showers and strong wind causing widespread damage.

“I was like fire once, but now I’m dying of starvation”, mothers and their wise words.

So what do you write about destruction? How do you write about the untamed flames and voluptuous waves? How do you define beauty in terms of devastation? Because I can’t.

Picture this, in a school atop a hillock, a classroom with 20 something students, all busy appearing for one of their Board exam papers. And then, the sound of wind, so close, like it is going to devour you any moment.

The feeling of being in the mountains, although you’re in the middle of a crowded city.

To add the cherry to the cake, the rain; not a drizzle, not a hurricane, just large puddles of raindrops everywhere. The sky turned a dark grey, and for a while, all we did was stare at the ever so majestic city beneath, without a care about what we were writing in our answer sheets. That’s how beautiful it was.

And sometimes, when we’re talking about storms, there’s this one person you’ll remember. Your storm, your gale, your Bordoisila. The one you gave the power to uproot you. The one that pulled you off your roots. The one who, in simple words, destroyed you.

Bordoisila, it comes and goes. Here in Assam, it is said that Bordoisila is a girl who is enraged since she isn’t able to visit her mother after marriage, so when she is on her way, she breaks whatever comes in her way.

But let me tell you, Bordoisila isn’t forever, it passes, just like the worst nights of your life.

Storms break you, they devastate you, but most importantly, they teach you. They tell you it’s okay to fall, for only then you learn to pick yourself up. They teach you it’s okay to feel the dark, for after it’s all over, you’ll still live to watch the sun rising and setting.

Bordoisila tells you, and me, that all storms pass. Yes, they do.

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