Delhi without the rains is deserted dust rising from the
asphalt. A stifling heat so complete it bears down without discrimination or
mercy. Hotter than an eight percent growth rate, it is a blinding white light
that reflects a city on its hustle. All at once fighting to eat and chasing
every latest fashion with a consumerism that would put New York City to shame.
Delhi without the rains is coming home the first night to
find the plastic of your toothbrush melted. Its three baths a day, where the water from
the tap is always hot – percolating in metal pipes for hours at a time. It’s the
ruin of the Fair and Lovely – and once more turning the color of the earth from
the sun kiss, a welcome reminder to confused travelers returning from distant
shores.
It means walking through a ceaseless cloud of hot air expectant
with humidity. In an ancient city the monuments from the past pop up without
warning. And despite the ubiquitous warmth, the beads of sweat that suddenly
appear take you by surprise. They trickle down your forehead in a perpetual
stream, tracing the shape of your upper lip. You never realized your body could
pour buckets of sweat. Sweat that stealthily runs down your back, clinging to
your clothes.
Perpetually damp, it’s only the privilege of air-conditioned
rooms that bring the controlled climate you have known. And when then
electricity goes, it means sleeping on the terrace like you did as a child on
strange summer adventures in the houses your parents told you they grew up in. The
distant hum of generators reverberating off the cooler stone below, gently
lulling you to asleep.
Delhi without the rains is the buildup before the burst. Above, the clouds quietly congregate. With
eyes tilted skyward our gaze carries the hopes for our collective stupor to
shift: from an intense malaise to an outpouring of gratitude.
And with these final keystrokes, it begins first as a
drizzle. Yet within minutes the downpour has become torrential. Before you know
it, the rain has ceased to fall downwards. It whips like the wind, horizontally
pulling everything in its path, bringing down trees and telephone poles. If only it will last. If only it will return
again tomorrow.
And so Delhi remains what it was and always has been. A house where my Nanima consistently chastises
me for not taking one more roti, not having one more spoon of dal, for never
eating enough. A resting place along the
journey where I ensure the flicker of the TV alternates between reruns of the Mahabharat and kitschy Bollywood music
videos. It is, amidst the chaos, a repeated site of reflection. A reminder of
yet another opportunity to make sense of these thoughts and these words and
these footsteps that only move forward.
