I enjoy the rains. I love the respite, the weekends spent with good books instead of good friends, the alterations of mood and tempo, the bhuta-pakora-chai rituals being played out dozens of times. I love the illusion of a lull that seems to go hand-in-hand with our monsoons. But it is possible to have too much of a good thing, and as I write this post at the end of yet another wet week the over-riding sense is not that of delicious delight but of a dampness made almost solid.
In the absence of any honest-to-goodness desi sunshine, I paid attention to the things that kick-started my mornings this week and kept me ticking till I negotiated my way to the coffee machine at work: Little kids, scrubbed and in uniform + pigtails, being led to school-buses by scruffy dads and yummy mummies; taxi-drivers who inhabited the front seat of their Maruti 800 as if it were a throne and maneuvered it to its destination with a lack of urgency that's entirely alien to their species; the surprisingly cool breeze off the sea-link; a grey van bursting at the seams with houseplants; two skinny young men bent double as they cracked up over a joke; discovering I had an extra hour to myself before it was time to head out Thursday morning.
In the vein of my previous post, it really is nice to notice. So much better than the alternative.