I am going to burn my jeans, my bra and every pokey, itchy article of clothing I find. It’s hot. It’s so hot in Bombay that you feel like you’re about to explode. In fact, yesterday I had a breakdown. It was so hot that I died at least once. I went home early because my stomach was queasy, my head was wheezy and my legs were like jelly. But going home didn’t make it any better.
I had no book to read, no show to watch (smartly, I’d left my macbook at work) and no drawing to sketch (again left it at work). So I became a ticking time-bomb. I lay down, sat up, walked around and repeated the process for a good two hours. As the air-conditioning tried its best to keep up, panting and fainting and ultimately giving up. Which lead to the fans having a field day, running round and round, rustling the curtains and anything that would fly.
And me, a jittery mess, fluctuated between restlessness and tiredness.
It was so damn hot both outside and inside. My stomach was burning, my cheeks were flushing and the air was thick with the smell of fish, open drains and frustrated humans on their way home from work. The sound of incessantly honking auto-rickshaws and cars didn’t make it any better.
The phone rang. Ooh I have a date. What do I wear? I hopped, skipped and jumped to my cupboard in the balcony, and the evening babble greeted me. Honk, Honk, Peep Peep… Argh, I was so excited to dress up. So many new clothes to wear. But damn the weather!
So I rummaged through my balcony-cupboard inhaling hot air, the internal bomb just a few seconds from detonation. And my sweaty fingers grasped a pair of cut-offs and a thin white tee in urgent need for ironing, pulled it from under more layers of clothes and toppled everything in the process. And it was so hot, and the clothes were on me, and I was already burning from within, so i stuffed the falling piles of clothing back into the cupboard and shut the door angrily on it and rushed indoors to change. I was breathing fast, my face and organs were steaming and I changed into my date outfit. Darn, the ends of the bra were poking and turning the hot, sweaty me even hotter and sweatier. And the denim in the shorts was feeling alien. Man! Since when do you feel hot even in shorts?
So I went back to my fiery cupboard in the balcony and pulled out a thin, low cut cotton dress and wore it, removing my bra. And oh my God! It felt better, but was it too revealing?
My phone started vibrating, and I got even more hyper. Shit, he’s here! And I am still not ready. I ran, back into the balcony and looked at the tumbling bits of clothing in my cupboard and the weather, in the mood for vengeance, threw balls of fire in my face, as it grinned cheekily at my state.
I looked at myself in the mirror and sighed. I checked out my hair. Disobedient hair. Refuses to curl. Refuses to straighten. Hangs haughtily around my shoulder every strand in a different direction silently revolting. And my face had little dots, threatening to burst into full-bodied zits, in the heat. Argh. I was definitely losing it.
I rushed back in and picked up the phone. “Hey! Oh, you’re here. Coming Coming!”
And then changed back into the white tee and shorts, picked up a sweatshirt (In case we’re watching a movie) and a dupatta (I don’t know why) and stumbled downstairs, clad in an unfortunate combination.
I cursed the weather for a good 15 minutes and I would have cursed it for the next 5 hours, but I got myself some yummy frozen yoghurt with strawberries on my date, and that changed it all.
Anyway, the whole point of this story was, gah, we need more designers making white, cotton flowing, loose dresses, thin enough to feel cool and thick enough to let us go bra-less.
Signing off now. Need to get myself a cool glass of water.
Happy Summer, folks. (yea, right)