December heat

Like the rain, a few months ago, the unflagging heat in what should be the beginning of a not so wintery winter is the subject of much small talk.  And really this is coming from a people not so prone to small talk.  It’s so hot that I can feel droplets of sweat form and sinew down the middle of my breasts.  It’s a most odd feeling to sweat so copiously when there is no exercise involved.  All the skirts and shirts I own get pushed to the back of the closet in favour of the salwaar kameez.  The seemingly voluminous pant and kurta seem like an impossible solution to the stickiness and steaming heat but when has India ever been anything but an impossibility.   I favour the anarkali kurtas, named for the walled up tragic courtesan of past, despite knowing they dwarf me.  There’s something about the way they twirl that I can’t resist.  (Cue tears over the tailor who took my wedding lengha, promising to make a floor length gown out of it, and just ran the freak away)  Forever on the search for a damn darzi.    I had been anticipating that grey silk salwaar I’d seen in a magazine and asked him to make…And when he comes to deliver my goods I’ll just give him the money and send him on his way.  So sick of this! The attitude of, “what can you do…chalo let it go” is so sinister and pervasive that despite my best efforts…I continually take it up the tail pipe because what the hell else can I do? 

I’ve retired my butter-soft, thrift shop jeans until it’s really winter.  The gall of me!  Falling into this charade of calling this temporary shift in temperature a winter.  It’s not winter! We’ve all been lied to.  The entire media industry is in on it.  Winter wardrobe in Bombay?  Oh really?  This scarf will look great to keep my dahi warm as it sets not around my neck editor hack of Vogue India.  I will not wear boots here no matter what that UGG wearing girl was trying to make happen.  Stop it Bombay, you look foolish….put away the hats, the scarves, your winter woollens (sniggers), the boots…winter will not come this year…because it has never come…

The apartment is always hot.  I can’t leave our windows open to allow for any ventilation for fear of the vermin laden flying rats that roost damn near everywhere in our complex.  Once I walked into the kitchen at the sudden rustling only to find two pigeons trying to do god knows what….I screamed and kicked at the air, in retrospect I realize how idiotic I must have looked, but it worked and they fluttered away…stupid birds are the reason I return from my jaunts into the city, already sweaty, into my hothouse home.  Yesterday was one suck day, but the double plus was I’d forgotten to bag and refrigerate some cauliflower that the maid had cut up for me.  And the house smelled like a hot dead rat.  The horror of the stench can’t be properly conveyed in this medium without the smell-o-vision (just doesn’t seem to interest any pioneer inventors) Huxley promised in BNW.  The stink lingers this morning fetid and dank.  I lit some incense to stamp out the remaining smell but now my eyes are watering from the smoke…what to do?  Chalo let it go..

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Sheetal

Relentlessly punctual, hedonist denim-head. Inked, vain, lover of shoes, clothes, and handbags, but mostly lost causes.

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