Heat of the night

It's hotter than it has been in a very long time. And, typically, I was out all yesterday, when it was about 40 degrees and humid as the air inside a steaming kettle, meeting a friend for lunch, doing myriad errands, looking covetuously at shoes and unexpectedly acquiring a pair that I would normally only lech at, and finally drooping into the house just in time for some tea and well-earned sympathy. And I did indeed droop, after a day that had started at 6:15 in the morning, exhausted me with a gym workout, polite conversation and social interaction, and progressed hotly through to a late evening cooled only by the air-conditioner and the thought of a cool shower scented by sandalwood and more sweet thoughts of soft pillows and no dreams.

It's been unusually hot, according to the Met Office. The powers that be generally off-base when it comes to weather prediction have promised that it will stay this way for another few days, which means that the media will run more stories on what to do to cool off, how to be extra-careful to ward off all the nasty bugs that love hot and steamy weather and what sunscreen and SPF and hats are good for. There will be lists of ailments that follow hot (sic) on the heels of the sultry weather and exhortations to drink plenty of cool liquid, take in plenty of watermelon, pumpkin, grapes, kiwi fruit and cucumber, and wear loose cotton clothing, stay out of the sun and avoid spicy or 'heating' foods.

But it's an interesting time of year. Vegetables, shrubbery and people droop glumly around the place and it takes a special kind of mind to be happy and show it while walking down the street, waiting for a bus or standing in line to buy stamps. I sweat more walking to the gym than after 17 minutes on the treadmill and my hair streams soggily down my back as I trudge wearily back, my T-shirt clinging damply to my shoulders and my feet almost literally squelching inside my sandals. Yesterday, as I walked in and out of stores that stocked all that I needed to get, my spike-heeled sandals stuck to my soles and my freshly washed hair blew stringily around my glowing (since I am a woman and not allowed to sweat) face. Stray dogs lay in the shade under trees, cars and awnings, their tongues hanging thirstily out and their stomachs heaving. A very large cow stood under a tree sheltering a roadside temple, her sides blowing gustily in and out and the pile of grass by her side ignored for a small bucket full of water close by. And four well-filled female passengers peered into my car from the open windows of a taxi and waved magazines in front of them to muster up some kind of ventilation and cool their heavily made-up faces.

It is Indian summer, the kind only Bombay (I hate Mumbai, always have) can manage. Though it is early this year and unwontedly severe, we can only scuttle towards all the coolth there may be and be rude about the Great Power way up there who has fated this upon us. And about the Met Office's super-efficient weather people, of course!