As the mercury hovers around 42 degrees, only taking time out to dip to an unrelenting 30 some time around 3am, the sane ones have taken to the hills, fleeing the Delhi plains and swirling dust. Better still, some have deserted the baking subcontinent altogether, vowing only to return when the heavy monsoon rains wash all traces of summer from the stinking streets of the capital.
Those of us remaining in our madness huddle in AC, sleep with frozen melons in bed at night, and avoid the long heat of the day by any means, venturing out close to midnight to catch the breeze and encourage dehydration through endless dancing fueled by massive does of whiskey and rum.
In a country obsessed with whiteness, women huddle under full hijab to avoid any trace of colour from the fierce sun. Any inadvertent tanning can be corrected with an array of whitening creams, suggested even to the fairest of the fair for that whitest of white. 'Be your very best' the advertisements read, worse still, 'be your best for him'. The darker girls, from the south and the north east, are listed as 'wheaty' on the endless matrimonial pages, their natural beauty shunned and denied. Only the tall fair northern girls and the striving Punjabis have a chance here. India is nothing if not defined by its 'types', even the most decided attempts to refute racist generalisations are met by cries of 'so what, it's true, nah?!'.
June has almost struggled by, and the south-west monsoon has had people dancing in the rain on the beaches of Kerala and Pondicherry for some time. Mango season is in full swing with all 20,000 varieties available here and there. Green tangy fleshed beauties from Calcutta, enormous red and green specimans with golden pulp rivaling that of any known fruit. Everyone has a favourite readily shared. The roasted corn wallahs still brave the baking roads to ply the popular summer food. The pani puri carts heath with customers intent on consuming the chilled broth, so that between them and the heat, the ice cannot come quick enough. Mysterious sherbets are drunk and proclaimed to have all sorts of cooling properties in the dark and congested allies of Chandi Chowk.
The long hot leaves us all lethargic, a city of loafers and crawlers in the light of day. In the awake of the night the endless beat creates some pulsing movement among the hoards, searching for a reprieve, blood boiling and dreaming of rainstorms.
Those of us remaining in our madness huddle in AC, sleep with frozen melons in bed at night, and avoid the long heat of the day by any means, venturing out close to midnight to catch the breeze and encourage dehydration through endless dancing fueled by massive does of whiskey and rum.
In a country obsessed with whiteness, women huddle under full hijab to avoid any trace of colour from the fierce sun. Any inadvertent tanning can be corrected with an array of whitening creams, suggested even to the fairest of the fair for that whitest of white. 'Be your very best' the advertisements read, worse still, 'be your best for him'. The darker girls, from the south and the north east, are listed as 'wheaty' on the endless matrimonial pages, their natural beauty shunned and denied. Only the tall fair northern girls and the striving Punjabis have a chance here. India is nothing if not defined by its 'types', even the most decided attempts to refute racist generalisations are met by cries of 'so what, it's true, nah?!'.
June has almost struggled by, and the south-west monsoon has had people dancing in the rain on the beaches of Kerala and Pondicherry for some time. Mango season is in full swing with all 20,000 varieties available here and there. Green tangy fleshed beauties from Calcutta, enormous red and green specimans with golden pulp rivaling that of any known fruit. Everyone has a favourite readily shared. The roasted corn wallahs still brave the baking roads to ply the popular summer food. The pani puri carts heath with customers intent on consuming the chilled broth, so that between them and the heat, the ice cannot come quick enough. Mysterious sherbets are drunk and proclaimed to have all sorts of cooling properties in the dark and congested allies of Chandi Chowk.
The long hot leaves us all lethargic, a city of loafers and crawlers in the light of day. In the awake of the night the endless beat creates some pulsing movement among the hoards, searching for a reprieve, blood boiling and dreaming of rainstorms.
