Friday, 15 June 2012

I broke up with Summer .

Dear Indian Summer,

I was looking for terms of endearments, but I couldn’t. This is a Dear John letter. I want to break up with you.

My first memory of you is from Jane Austen novels. She said you stretched on “languidly”, causing little pockets of breeze, which flirted with all the coquettish, young girls’ petticoats. I am unhappy to report that you caused no such attractive accidents with me. You did manage to cause patches of unsightly and uncomfortable sweat. These makes me feel neither coquettish, nor suitor worthy.

Of course, you make me crave for a pool, constantly and obsessively. I sometimes wonder if I am on a rather odd fantasy trip- all day long, I dream of a green tiled, chlorine filled pool. The reality however is cruel and my pool is filled with children, of various ages, in frilly costumes. Sometimes, these children are actually hefty aunties, and they enjoy the breeze on the frills of their whale-costumes. I am sorry; the heat is making me snarky.

They say that summer days are longer and nights are shorter. It seems like a cosmic joke really!  “Let me give you more hours of 40 degree plus temperature. Enjoy suckers!” The nights offer no respite. Angels whisper in your ear, if you stand real quiet. These angels, are almost always mosquitoes, and they don’t whisper as much as bite and suck. It’s a bit  much, even for the most ardent Twilight fan, to bear.

You’re also really seductive, dear summer heat. Every Monday to Friday around 3pm, you take over me and I fight a long, ardous battle against just closing my eyes and putting my head down on my desk.  Don't misunderstand me, you don’t work in a, “I wish you’d make me sleep with you” way, you’re more, chloroform on a white handkerchief effect. It’s really not pleasant. I wish you would stop, I might press charges otherwise.

Most of these days you seem to be in a menopausal mood. I want to tell Bob, he was wrong. No answers are blowing here, just really, really dry wind. It's like they conspire to blow in my face. Even if I just step outside to close the door.

My friends told you, didn’t they, about the one winter evening I laughed aloud? You designed things such, that the minute I step out in the sun, I tan. I do not tan in a beautiful, Jessica Alba came to Jaipur, way. I tan like *there really is no politically correct comparison to say out loud, but my now brown sisters know who I mean*

With every long summer day you give me, you take away my hunger. Do I Bon Apetit, myself anymore? No, siree. Plan for the day is to survive and not melt into watery goop-  like a wimpy nemesis of a badly written superhero. I sip on any liquid I find, always stumbling into coffee shops, gasping “Iced Anything, please". 
And this, when the menu is boasting of the latest Mango Soufflé, and handmade tagliatelle with roasted tomatoes and olives.

I decide to celebrate my relationship with you, and go on a vacation. Just to mark our yearly anniversary. Of course, since you plant this idea in everyone else’s head, prices skyrocket and everything everywhere becomes ‘tourist-y’.

 I am stuck with you, then, for what feels like eternity, with mosquitoes buzzing “my heart will go on” in my ear. Make them stop, I never thought I’d say it, but I prefer Celine.

(It’s not me. It really is you.)

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