Death by Humidity

Courtesy - Google images

The last few weeks my hair has been behaving like Salman Khan (and his many controversies). It simply refuses to settle down. On a good hair day I look like Sai Baba (the one who dazzled his devotees by fishing out gold chains from his armpits). On a bad hair day I look like I have been freshly electrocuted. In fact if I can perfect my roaring skills, I can be easily mistaken for Lion King.

Gurgaon weather has become a copycat. It has started mimicking Kolkata’s horrible humidity. The type where there’s so much moisture in the air that you start resembling an Amazonian forest in full bloom. Your back hasn’t seen a dry day since May and you alternate between taking a shower in salty water that your body generates and water from the showerhead. Even the tiniest physical activity like a walk to the neighbourhood veggie store makes your body weep and you leave behind not footprints but tiny puddles. Unfortunately, Gurgaon is yet to adopt Kolkata’s lack of work culture where everyone treats work with disdain and prefers engaging in heated debates about Spain’s economic crisis in between sips of chaa and leisurely naps.

The good thing is that this muggy weather has taken care of my vanity. I avoid looking at the mirror at all costs – don’t want to see a hair-framed glistening blob of oil staring back at me. I’m not exactly doing my heart a favour when I scream a loud nahiiiiiiiiin and it races faster than Usain Bolt. Sometimes I have so many oil deposits on my face that I fear the all new fearless America led by Trump will invade me.

It has also turned me deeply religious. I am either praying to the Rain gods to relent and wash us away with its bounties or turn me into a plant so that I can soak in the joys of humidity.

Even god prefers multiple options.

Since I have started resembling a leaky faucet, I have decided to put myself to good use. If I have to move furniture in the house, I simply sit on it and wait patiently for my sweat to start working its magic. Ten minutes later when I get up the chair is firmly stuck to me a like a baby kangaroo to its mom, ready to move to newer plains. If I spot stains on the glass windows of our 16th floor apartment, I hang upside down like a bat and start rubbing my back against it till it becomes squeaky clean. I no longer reach out for the salt shaker when I discover our cook has forgotten to season the dal yet again. I simply stir it with my little finger. I have offered my services to Moms who are looking to scare their kids for not listening to them. I discovered this hidden talent when I semi-glared at a kid who wouldn’t stop fiddling with the control buttons inside the lift. One look at me and he clung to his Mom like fungus, his eyes shut in fear.

Had I been a few inches taller, I could have easily replaced Bipasha Basu in the many paranormal movies she does these days.

Before you all start clucking in sympathy, let me tell you, it’s not all that bad. These days I no longer have to rely on makeup, strenuous workouts and a killer wardrobe to turn into a yummy Mummy. All I need to do spend an hour cooking and I emerge from the kitchen cooked to perfection in my perspiration and smelling of aromatic spices. Some days, I even imagine myself as Ursula Andress in Dr No emerging from the ocean. Only this time the desi Ms Andress is mumbling ‘kee gorom’ (it’s so hot) under her breath as she wrings out sweat from her dress.

It’s even better for men. They don’t have to rely on wit, a deep baritone and subtle flattery to make a woman go weak at her knees. All they have to do is raise their arms and their object of desire crumples in a heap at their feet. I have a feeling Shankar Mahadevan got the inspiration for ‘Breathless’ when he was travelling in a Mumbai local.

Subramanian Swamy is right. Not just ministers, all Indian men including waiters should switch to Indian attires. It’s no fun sweating in suffocating shirts and trousers and raising a stink when they can experience the joys of cross-ventilation in a dhoti!

Monsoons may tend to behave like a VIP guest who thinks it’s beneath their dignity to turn up on time. It may not be raining outside, but trust me, all of us are, inside our homes and offices. It’s as if we have turned into nimbus clouds dense with vapour, walking around like zombies. Swimming, guzzling cold drinks and snacking on fruits are only temporary solutions to combat humidity. I appeal to Ms Universe contestants to give up on world peace. Dearies, try eradicating humidity instead!

And till that happens, I shall sweat my way to greatness. Wasn’t it Edison who said, genius is 99% perspiration? Well, I am just 1% away from being a genius.