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| Edited By: Malavika Sangghvi |Source: |Updated: Nov 19, 2013, 11:17 PM IST
The Spectator
When it gets so hot, I dream of the rains — of the monsoons that will come to rescue us; the smell of wet earth, the sound of rain on tiled roofs, the crash and sparkle of thunder and the streaks of lightening across the sky.
When it gets so hot, I think of heavenly sunsets, gray damp mornings, moist afternoons, windy cool evenings and nights spent listening to the rain falling steadily in stereophonic sound outside our windows.
I dream of hot buttered bhuttas sold on the streets; upturned umbrellas in the office that speak of stoic resolve to come to work under dire circumstance; the appearance of blue plastic sheeting on surfaces; the eating of mangoes and pakoras on rainy days.
When it gets so hot I remember the sight of children going to school in hooded raincoats like gnomes from an alien planet; creepy insects that crawl out of the woodwork; cars stalled on the streets, TV anchormen broadcasting in knee-high water, days spent being under siege at home doing nothing except following the weather report.
When it gets so hot I long for the rains. Even though they have wrought havoc on the city once and will probably do so again; even though they render our best plans void; even though they make us vulnerable to the vagaries of the weather — I long for the rains. For all those features in magazines that are so predictably called Monsoon Madness; for the Monsoons Sales in retail establishments; for the way the monsoons create communities of survival among strangers; for the kinship on the high streets; for the ersatz bonding between commuters.
When it gets so hot I remember the swapping of rain-survivor stories around office water coolers; the offerings of help from complete strangers; the feeling of universality between Mumbaikers as they battle the Rain Gods.
When it gets so hot I long for the whoops of joy of school children being sent home because of the deluge; the stirring in the hearts of lovers; the anxiousness of loved ones waiting for their kin to return home safely — notching up one more day that they have stayed one step ahead of the rain and its havoc.
When it rains I long for megh-malhar; for drives to the outskirts of Mumbai; for the mist in Lonavala; for the strawberry-laden fields of Mahabaleshwar, for the wall of rain amidst the banyan trees of Pune.
When it rains I think of the wind-lashed backwaters of Kumarakom, the fresh breezes in the tea estates of Munnar, the rain drenched beaches of Kovalam.
When it rains I long for the bright lush greenery of Goa, with its empty lonely beaches, and shut-down cafes, the hailstorms of Delhi and the somnolent afternoons of Kolkotta.
When it’s so hot I long for the rains to rescue us. But it is only early days of April. Still two months more to go for the monsoons. Two unrelentingly hot scorching sweltering, sizzling searing months to go-and I’m counting the days.
