Perhaps the most telling of it all, is that I now sleep with the permanent hum of the airconditioner lulling me off to sleep. And wonder who the good fella is who invented said miracle device, so I can go and pump his hand and thank him for this wonderful service to humankind, deserving, in my humble opinion, a Noble prize at the very least, and beatification at the most, for his contribution to extending the lifespan of mortals like me who, at the first hint of heat of any sort, wilt and die.
Yup, its official, I hate the summer. I also hate the monsoon. I dont hate winters because, I live in Mumbai. We dont have any winter worth hating. This year, I climbed into the loft, even got stuck inside, and hauled down the suitcases, and took out fabulous sweaters only to find we had the thermometer wavering between deciding to dip a degree or rise a degree. Only the smog made it feel winter. I can live in the Mumbai winter. I dont sweat buckets then. One week of the terrible muggy Mumbai summer, and I have already shed kilos of fat melted by terrible heat leading to a new slim and improved me. Or so I can hope. Reality of course, is a fat, sweaty woman, hastily moping her face up with wipes and napkins and wringing them out to water the parched plants on the road dividers.
Now if this said genius can invent personal portable airconditioners that one could attach to one’s person and move about, I would kiss feet. I swear. But since that doesnt seem to be happening in the near future, I’m doing the next best I can and checking the wardrobe out for clothes that are pure cotton. Light colours and full sleeves. I found zilch that fitted in with all three requirements. Considering one lives in a city which is fast reaching decimate humanity levels of heat, where the inhabitants will soon naturally evolve into longer thinner beings to create more surface area so as to disseminate body heat and such like, my wardrobe is horrifically unsuited to summer. For one. I have a gadzillion black tshirts. When I say gadzillion, I mean gadzillion. Not more, not less. And whatever is not black is in wonderfully unsuitable fabrics like corduroy, velvet, knits and the like. Yup, yup, I fantasise I live in lands where it snows. I know.
This might have been the perfect opportunity to take myself shopping, but sadly depleted walletary resources assure me that I dare shop at the risk of living on bubble gum for the rest of my life, therefore, I am thinking quick and thinking hard as to how to resolve this issue, and dress in a manner that will not result in an internal combustion episode where I spontaneously burst into flames and have the Discovery channel folks rush across to make a documentary on unexplained phenomena, with Fox and Mulder skulking in the background, wearing overcoats and talking into their mobile phones. Damn. I should be able to spontaneously uncombust right then and shake hands with David Duchovny. Anyway.
Right now, I’ve found the perfect garment for the summer. The ganji. Unfortunately, I cannot be seen in public wearing that, on the risk of the sudden outbreak of conjunctivitis, therefore, I think the next best option is for me to spend the summer days indoors. With the curtains drawn and the chiks down. And the AC on. Yup, what was that inventor’s name again? Definitely owe him a thank you note. And a recommendation for said Nobel prize. Along with the chappie who invented home delivery. And the other fellow who figured out plumbing to help us have cold showers. And the fourth chappie who created deodorants. Yup, I owe them all big time. And the man who put together the refrigerator. Damn, I should just move to the Antartic.