These last few weeks, my hair has been behaving like Twitter-in a constant state of outrage. On a good outrage day, I look like Sai Baba (the one who dazzled his devotees by fishing out gold chains from his armpits). On a bad outrage day, I look like I have been freshly electrocuted.
Meanwhile, I am trying to perfect my roaring skills so that I can be mistaken for Lion King.
Gurgaon’s weather has become such a copycat. The once dry, desertified city that vanquished its residents with furnace-like winds called loo, is now trying to kill us with Kolkata-like humidity. And I just can’t stop giving it an injured look while I mumble – ‘aap to aise naa the’?
I have all the reasons to feel betrayed.
Since May, my back hasn’t seen a dry day. I am either being showered by the salty water that my body generates or water from the shower-head. Even minimum physical activity, like a walk to the neighbourhood veggie store, makes my body weep and my footprints resemble tiny puddles of sweat.
Too bad, Gurgaon is not as evolved as Kolkata. Unlike the Punjabis and the Jaats, the Bengali intellectual treats work with disdain and prefers engaging in heated debates about Erdogan’s influence in East Jerusalem in between sips of ‘chaa’ (tea) and leisurely naps.
Sadly, I have had to relinquish my honorary ‘hot-bong-babe’ badge of honour. My vanity is in a ‘rest in peace, please accept my deepest condolences’ state.
Once, in an absent-minded haze, when I happened to look at the mirror in our building lift, and a ball of frizz mounted on top of an oily karhai (cooking-pot) stared back at me, my loud ‘nahiiiiiiiiin’ could be heard 25 floors away!
Sometimes, I have so many oil deposits on my face that I fear that the all-new, fearless America, led by Trump, will invade me. I appeal to Miss Universe contestants to give up on world peace. Dearies, try eradicating humidity instead!
It has also turned me deeply religious. I am either praying to the rain gods to relent and wash us away with its bounties or turn me into a plant so that I can soak in the joys of humidity. Even god prefers multiple options.
Since I have started resembling a leaky faucet, I have decided to put myself to good use. If I have to move furniture in the house, I simply sit on it and wait patiently for my sweat to start working its magic. Ten minutes later, when I get up, the chair is firmly stuck to me like a baby kangaroo to its mom, ready to move to newer plains. If I spot stains on the glass windows of our 16th floor apartment, I hang upside-down like a bat and start rubbing my back against it till it becomes squeaky clean. I no longer reach out for the salt-shaker when I discover our cook has forgotten to season the daal (yet again). I simply stir it with my little finger!
I have also offered my services to mothers who are looking to scare their kids for not listening to them. I discovered this hidden talent when I half -glared at a kid who wouldn’t stop fiddling with the control buttons inside the lift. One look at me and he clung to his Mom like fungus, his eyes shut in fear.
Had I been a few inches taller, I could have easily replaced Bipasha Basu in the paranormal movies she acted in during her heydays.
Now stop clucking in sympathy. It’s not all that bad. My journey to yummy mummy-hood is no longer paved with expensive skincare, strenuous workouts and splurging on a killer wardrobe. All I need is an hour in the kitchen and I emerge, cooked to perfection in my perspiration, smelling of aromatic spices.
Some days, I even imagine myself as Ursula Andress in Dr No, emerging from the ocean. Only this time, the desi Ms. Andress is mumbling ‘kee gorom’ (it’s so hot!) under her breath as she wrings out sweat from her dress.
I am sure men are loving this sweat-fest. And why not? Imagine not having to rely on wit, a deep baritone and subtle flattery to make a woman go weak on her knees. All they have to do is raise their arms and the fumes from the armpits will be enough to make their object of desire crumple in a heap at their feet. I have a feeling Shankar Mahadevan got the inspiration for ‘Breathless’ when he was travelling in a Mumbai local.
I am not sure why our men are not embracing desi attire and experiencing the joys of cross-ventilation in a dhoti or a lungi! Especially when scientific research has proved that the secret behind the success of Gandhi’s non-violent movement was his dhoti.
Dhoti or no dhoti, monsoon in Delhi NCR is all about running the risk of getting spondylitis as we crane our neck upwards waiting for clouds to relent...but getting sprayed with dust instead.
So we shall continue to walk around like zombies, our hands outstretched for the next glass of icy drink or ‘CHILD BEAR’ that you get exclusively in liquor vends in Haryana. And with a little help from Bangaloreans, Puneris and Mumbaikars, who love to rub in “ooh, it’s 26 degrees and so pleasant!” on our faces, our misery reaches Qutub Minar levels. But here’s the thing. While you sip your garam garam chai with pakodas, stare languidly at the sheets of rain lashing against your windows, and wonder if you’ll swim or take the boat back home, we Gurgaon walas are just 1% away from being geniuses.
Wasn’t it Edison who said that “genius is 99% perspiration...’’?
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