…And not a drop to drink

If climate change is a sign of the impending Apocalypse, then it may be a good idea to give up the day job and take up residence at a convenient shrine, seeking absolution and enlightenment (but no longer in moderation) or, failing that, some good music and passable narcotics, and here is why. This summer monsoon has hit the City of Intermittent Lights well in the month of September fashionably late, much like a minor celebrity. This coupled with the fact that the Gulmohar was still flowering well into August are clear signs that all those B list Hollywood movies where the flipping of the magnetic poles / stopping of the flow of the core of the earth / cessation of the North Atlantic Current causes all manner of special effects are about to come true. 

It is a strange sight in this town to see people waiting for their morning bus wearing leather jackets that are so well endowed with tassels and zippers that they would put any Hell’s Angel to shame. And with the chill being precipitated by precipitation, the city’s traffic police take the opportunity to break out of the tedium of their normal uniforms, and sport trendy white rain slickers instead, with the kind of detailing on the sleeves that is seen either in Gaultier Couture shows or on dolls’ clothes. 

Here comes the hotstepper

And ‘tis a time for the policemen to be even busier than usual, for it takes the merest downpour to reduce city traffic to a post-apocalyptic state of quasi-anarchy not seen since the days of the Mad Max movies; indeed one would not be surprised to see a likeness of Mel Gibson adorning a city minibus any time soon, bearing down on the unrighteous with an expression of holy (and anti-Semite) malevolence. And even his credentials as a lethal weapon would be tested to the full, having to travel from Tower to Gulberg on the top of a bus, having been relieved of his cell phone and wallet somewhere on the way on the back of an equally lethal weapon put to his well-coiffured head. 

Even a couple of centimetres of water provide enough fodder for the population of this town to seek entertainment. Normally, this starts with many of the side streets of the city’s business district turning into sporting venues, where local children could participate in prestigious events such as the All New-Challi Short Course Swimming Championships and the Guru Mandir Steeple Chase. My perennial favourite, however, remains, the Motorbike Dressage event, where, in a supreme exhibition of man and machine as one, the protagonists assumes a variety of callisthenics-inspired postures atop his noble Chinese-engineered steed in order to avoid the spray from the soiled road soiling his attire. 

National Aquatics Center, eat your heart out

However, the hardy perennial Sidewalk Spectator does not seem to be deterred as easily, as could be seen by the number of people who spent a large part of their Monday peering over the edge into the city’s first, and most infamous, underpass. Not that there was much to see; the drainage problems that had led to it being dubbed the city’s newest municipal baths appear to have been alleviated. 

This being the peak of wedding season, the rains did manage to put a damper on proceedings for some, while those who had managed to book an indoor venue patted themselves on the back for their amazing foresight. For the terminally antisocial such as myself, this provided the ideal opportunity to beg off such engagements, citing the inclement weather as an excuse. Legend would have you believe that if you eat directly out of the pan, it will rain on your wedding day, especially if you scrape the bottom. I wonder how many grandmothers spent these past few days chastising their grandchildren with endless ‘I told you so’s’. 

It is interesting that we greet newly-married colleagues much as we would newly bereaved ones, with a half-hug and a forced rictus of a smile that seems to say that we do not wish to intrude upon their private grief(!) any more than we have to. The words spoken at such times are also as stereotypical, and have probably been unchanged for as many centuries. It is quite entertaining, I have to say, to be at the periphery of a wedding reception and watch the couple and those greeting them alike to fumble through platitudes, purses and pockets while they exchange good wishes and envelopes, it never being clear which of the two is the more welcome. 

I wonder sometimes if the stereotypical exchanges between people on such occasions are due more to their own preconceived notions than social norms. At a wedding I attended some years ago, the exchanges between his (Caucasian) bride and the wedding guests were probably the equivalent of a couple of undergraduate level courses in psychology and sociology, not to mention a study in how different generations interact. The oldest generation would speak to the American bride in Punjabi, and be completely satisfied with nods and smiles in return. The next generation down would speak to her slowly and loudly, as if making a transatlantic call on a bad telephone line. One generation further down, the conversation would begin in English and, thanks to her knowing a few Urdu words like ‘yes, no, and thank you’, would turn into a bit of a competition to explore the depths of her linguistic knowledge, while the youngest of the ‘grown-up’ generation stood by, their faces brimming with embarrassment at what their elders were making them live through. Pretty much a masterclass in what was once called the ‘generation gap’. 

Thankfully the wedding was not rained off, which is more can normally be said for the first working day after the downpours. After all, enjoying the rain with a plate of pakoras and a cup of steaming tea is one of those little pleasures in life that everyone can enjoy; for that time you don’t need to be worrying about whether the basement car park is getting flooded, or if the electricity is going to fail and for how long, or if you will have to wade to work the next day. For those glorious ten minutes, all that exists in your universe is a cup of tea to keep your hands warm, some rapidly cooling dumplings that must be consumed before they grow cold, and the sound of the rain, muffling the usual chaotic noises of a city going about its daily business and placing you in your own little oasis of calm.

Reason enough to pull a sickie