It is hot. Which is in itself quite an understatement. Even though our sweltering metropolis that is Mumbai is not as hot – temperature-wise, I mean – as other parts of the country, where the egg-fried-on-the-sidewalk analogy could be made reality if people were not still nervous of eating fowl products or were not religiously vegetarian, it feels like I live, work and commute in an off-canvas version of one of the more luridly fiery depictions of hell as painted by surrealist master Hieronymous Bosch or visualised in oils by Salvador Dali in a period of greater madness. And then the anaemic weathergirl from a local and very popular television news channel chirpily tells me (and the rest of her steaming audience) that it is not really that hot, it is the ‘sweat factor’ at work. Which makes me (and I bet all those other sweaty viewers) want to reach into the TV set, grab her by her scrawny little neck and throw her into that cauldron that is Mumbai in mid-May.
It’s actually very special, this Mumbai heat. It is only about 32 degrees Celsius (You lie, oh damned thermometer!), but when you walk out of your air-conditioned office, where you will be wearing a shawl to combat the sub-zero temperature at which the people-who-know-these-things believe you can best function, into the building courtyard, the heat rises up in waves and burns the lacquer off your nicely polished toenails. By the time you walk to your car, which is just about 20 feet away, your mascara has melted and your elegantly caught up hair is a soggy coil that drips into your eyebrows. And your well starched linen shirt could have just come out of a disastrous encounter with a particularly sadistic dhobi whose iron spouted hot water instead of steam…
You see, this wonderful city is getting set for the monsoon. Which is only about a month away from now. So, as the chirpy twit of a weathergirl would explain, the air is heavy with humidity, with clouds all ready to spout like an overenthusiastic whale. All it needs is that critical last drop loaded into the cumulus mass that will push its storage limit over critical volume and cause it to RAIN! Then, we assure ourselves with a crocodile smile and sincerely hypocritical fervour, it will be cooler and we will be better tempered and happier. Until then, we wait. And, while we wait, we sweat.
A Mumbaikar commuter sweating is a sensation. He or she will gallop up and down stairs and ramps to reach the train into work, charge in before it stops to grab a seat and then sit with legs wide apart, breathing heavily, leaning sweatily into the neighbouring hot body. Through the journey, everyone in the compartment will be vying for the window seat, playing an intricate game of bottom-chess to get there, making swap deals with others who may have been luckier first off. The stress of the journey rises as the temperature and sweat factor (Is that weathergirl still prattling on?) do, gradually releasing the slowly intensifying odour of eau-de-polyester and a spice-laden lunch packed hot into stainless steel dabbas nestling in capacious handbags. Once at work, after the frantic rush to punch in is done with, this individual settles into a cushioned seat, mopping furiously at the briny beads rolling down front and back, complaining in a peevish whine about how it seems to get hotter every year. When will the rains come? is the question everyone wants an answer to.
Hey, you, weathergirl, do you know?
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