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.
Sincerely,
Jilted.
(It’s
not me. It really is you.)
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