There is one topic that prevails, dominantly so. More so, I would think in Delhi and its adjoining city of Gurgaon, (happen not to use its newly anointed name Gurugram, and you might be fined a penalty, given by the way the daggers are out, looks that withering you becomes the recipient of) we do have an 8-month long summer with varying shades. Before getting started, think must mention that in Delhi and its neighbouring towns, the prolonged summer falls into three segments—dry heat, humid heat and out-and-out, hellacious mugginess where once you step out of the bath, you are yet again drenched with sweat, that you could, if time permitted, dash back, taking another shower. I can’t recall the name of the author, but do remember long back, my father visiting me in the clammy part of summer, think it was August, talk while repeatedly mopping off his sweaty brow with a handkerchief gone soggy in the exercise, that he narrated this while tilting his neck backwards for the whirring fan to show more partiality to a sweltering face, how a writer had come up with a remarkable, perhaps a quirky way, to beat the heat. You see, the writer in the swamping rash of heat, could not write! Actually, even the few ideas that came up, wilted much before they took any tangible form, so putting pen to paper was an impossibility. And then like Archimedes, this Wordsmith comes up with a solution. Eureka!
He fills his bath tub with slabs of ice, that melt quite quickly yes, perches on a table tray his notebook etc., and in shorts and a sleeveless undershirt sits in the tub to fill up, prodigiously so, blank sheets of paper. By now, chuckles my Dad, (eased by both the fan throwing out windy air, and his captivated audience comprising of only yours truly, had himself quite forgotten about the heat) the ice in the tub having melted but was cool enough to let the pen-pusher work for a couple of more hours. Yes, this a true story, with no embellishments. Once I finish filling my own blank sheet, must Google the name of this writer. However, it goes without saying that despite Google becoming God, with the, “beseech and you shall be bestowed prowess” it still, more often than not falters. Blamed on a slow “Search Engine” or draws a blank ’cause the query asked is vague, rather scarce as a hen’s teeth, so Google can’t come up with an answer. However, too much space has been used up with this tale and to head straight to the point, without breaking for coffee. The Weather, we can talk about it, with a flourish—all year round. A topic, which in the Capital, is for all seasons. Yes, whatever be the season, we can with an eloquence, which I might daresay, put the likes of Shashi Tharoor in the shade. We, most of us, complain and complain, be it the biting winter or the much-awaited cold spell which by making a late entry has betrayed us, signalling the premature onset of a summer streaming with more heat and dust. Or during the monsoons, the whining refrain being that the traffic was stalled due to the roads that had become good enough for boats to float, and heaven knows why mosquitoes and rain were bedfellows. Or howzzit that the Rain Gods had taken a back seat, or were missing from the scene?! Was not a reprieve needed from the pounding sun and what about the crops, did they not need the rain to make it to fruition?!
With rains playing the absconder, prices of everyday vegetables etc. will go through the ceiling, and how in the devil’s name, was a decent kitchen to be run?! Here, the plight of the poor farmers, doesn’t figure into this cry! Or if it does, for the most, it’s fashionable, to talk about the lamentable predicament of the sons of the soil. The weather-propelled accusatory saga continues unabated, and with summer in its different shapes, and monsoons quite out of the way, winter sets in, and another belly-aching barrage becomes the order of the day. How come despite the layers of heavy-wear—sweaters, hoodies, mufflers, caps, mittens—does one remain chilled to the bone, making the blood run cold.
Bundled in these immobilising woollies one dawdles along duck-like yet kicking up a storm and once again the hypercritical carping continues. Here one thinks that there has to be a way of making direct contact with the Weather God so as to air one’s ranting, grievances collectively, individually. Surely, in this day and age, Indra, the God of Mausam, should bear a mobile in his hand to telecast the weather forecast, days ahead of the tempest, deluge or whatever, so that us mortals too could build up a crescendo well in advance. To paddle, rather ski to winter. First, it’s the put out of action, an anesthetizing arctic frost (speak of over dramatization!) then how winter comes and goes, in two shakes of a lamb’s tail or to be more 21st century, in a New York minute. New woollies bought in vain, since the cold season aborted itself prematurely. The rallying cry now: why make an entry at all, if it meant absconding after making a brief appearance?! What about the betrayal experienced, and what about the cumbersome hours that would go into folding those bulky knits and then squeezing the girthy wear into an already tearing-from-the seams-closet! To capture a few frames, hilariously so, of our weather-driven ways: incinerating summer and don’t for half a minute think that people—young, old or rather of all ages, have overnight, by the way of some divine hand, wielding a magic wand, been driven to the world of books. The library becomes the happening place. With herds on auto-pilot, as if to wake the dead, flipping page after page of some crisp-paged magazine. Reason: the library is airconditioned and what could be a better way of beating the heat for free?! Another side-splitting frame: clubs where one can spend the entire afternoon nursing on a piping hot coffee gone cold, now classified as a cold latté, since one’s in the ultra-cool precincts, the bathroom within sniffing distance.
Time to leave harbour…but not without applauding the writer who dodged, without brows knitted in fury, the burning heat by sitting in icicles of water and writing reams and reams, giving the heat a good drubbing.