Fire & Brimstone & Delhi Summers!

When Amrita Arora shook her hips to the song that paid tribute to “Dilli ki sardi” (translated, the Winters of Delhi), two thoughts went across my mind. One, “What a God awful song that is!” and two, “They are dragging the wrong season into limelight.” If there is anything that is dreaded about Delhi (apart from the dust, pollution, traffic snarls, crime rate, and the tomfoolery that passes for driving skills in this city), it is the weather we experience between the months of May and September.

A true Delhiite would be familiar with these months. We get burned to a shade of black that would give identity crisis to a block of coal. We get bullied by high speed winds that look like they’ve caught the express train from hell. And we get roasted throughout the day in ways unimaginable and in parts of the body unmentionable! No wonder we live in mortal fear of Delhi summers.

If it wasn’t enough that we are subject to third degree torture at the hands of the sun, we are also brutalized by fellow Delhiites. Tempers are short, patience is low, and any mankind left is pretty much squeezed out of the body, much like the last drop of water from our cells. If I wasn’t fighting the urge to beat people to a pulp, I would … well, I would beat people to a pulp and drink their juice for sustenance!

But since I can’t do that, what do I do? I channel my murderous impulses elsewhere (because I am too old and too pretty to be in jail!) The result? This poem.

As they say, desperate times call for desperate measures and Delhi summers tend to make you very, very, VERY desperate.

I (somewhat shamefully) present …

Delhi Burning!

When the mercury soars; and your tempers too,

Nothing, just nothing, appeals to you.

The ground gets fried, black and crisp,

Words barely escape your lips.

Clothes are a burden, a pain to wear,

But you can’t even walk around buck ass bare!

Your throat is parched, your blood runs dry,

There’s no respite, no matter how hard you try.

Your brows are furrowed, your nostrils flare,

People turn into grumpy, grizzly bears!

…………………………………………………………………………………….

If outdoors are unpleasant, indoors are a curse.

Power cuts and load shedding make things worse.

This torture is just too hard to bear,

It makes even the saint cuss and swear.

Oh, what you wouldn’t do to escape this grief,

End this torture, find some relief.

Drink and drink till you can drink no more,

Then stop, and drink just a little bit more.

You want to climb into a fridge to try and stay cool.

Or hijack a rich man’s private pool.

And splash in it from morning to eve,

And maybe through the night, too! Who wants to leave?

Oh to stick your tongue out and pant like a dog,

Wallow in slush, like a happy wild hog.

I want to take inspiration from the friendly mole,

Dig myself into a deep, dark, hole.

And stay safe in there when the summer peaks,

Sleep your way through these fiery weeks!

…………………………………………………………………………………….

Aaah, what pleasant dreams. But hey,

Too bad that you can’t get away.

Escape routes have been closed off,

Delhi has flipped you a big F*** off!

You’re too poor to have a summer home,

In Scotland, Switzerland, Italy, or Rome.

So toss away your fancy plans,

Chin up! Bear it the best you can.

And as Delhi erupts in smoke and steam,

Just work your way through a tub of ice-cream!