There is a saying. A desultory mood is the product of rotten weather. It isn't? It will be...someday. Unless the White Walkers arrive and herald an end to Global Warming anytime soon. I shall greet them at Netaji Subhash with mishti doi and roshogolla.
I don't always suffer from the grumpy cat syndrome but I do occasionally consciously exercise the special grumpy gland located anterior to the diaphragm in my body. And why yes, I do blame the weather. Apart from the many medical benefits of 41 degrees of heat and 99% humidity on the human body (dark chocolate skin instead of Indian caramel confectionery among others), it stimulates a lot of healthy behavioural practices as well. Like the way I used to hang up my clothes to dry without subjecting them to a wash back in college because a casual soak in natural sebaceous sweat for 3 hours and a dab of Adidas' finest deodorant seemed to do the job just fine. Skeptical, are you? You should try it. Four years and my clothes never shrank an inch!
But if there's one thing that heat and humidity isn't good for, it's the general demeanour of people. If a survey was conducted on the average length of sentences and most commonly used words in Summer, they would most certainly be 2 words long and 'Huh...*groan*'. Slouching becomes perfectly acceptable in Summer and people inadvertently demonstrate an affinity for Twilight by glistening in sunlight. Although I suspect that has more to do with sweat than any vampiric tendencies. Speaking of blood-sucking wretches, have you noticed how taxi-drivers just become more belligerent during May? I think there is an annual convocation of the union members of Taxi-drivers Inc. every May when they chant Lord Krishna's name, spontaneously combust and are immediately transformed into Biharis. Ah well, at least the good conversation you'll have on a ride from Southern Avenue to Maddox Square will give you a good bang for your buck. Which doesn't really apply here I know, but it is a phrase I picked up during MBA and I really want to use it more often.
I know what you're thinking. Why would you take a cab from Southern Avenue to Maddox when there is a perfectly well managed bus system along the same route? More importantly, why don't you just drive? I will answer that question by allowing you to choose from a number of options - 1) We don't own a car at the moment, my dad sold it off because he intends to buy a new one (which is what I tell people) 2) It is a stupid generic Alto and I'd rather die than be caught dead in it (which is what I tell people when I'm drunk) and 3) I'm too afraid to drive (which is plain and simple, the honest truth). Frankly, it just alarms me how every friggin' person I know is self-assured enough to roll a 2-tonne metal machine onto the road and propel it at 60 Kmph down streets with casual pedestrians and the odd cow. Are you not afraid that middle-aged aunty who thinks footpaths are a decadent trifle that exist for the plebeians is going to walk right in front of your car when you least expect it? Are you not haunted by the possibility of being furiously honked at for driving into a No-Entry that was just put there for the amusement of the traffic police? If I call you a prick, will you not bleed? Have you no conviction of personal inadequacy? Fie, I say. Because I'm in the mood to be slightly British.
I know this is a distressingly, unremittingly, excruciatingly self-indulgent post, but I like to think of it as my oeuvre of grouchiness and disdain which is an expression of the perpetual 'Oh-sod-it!'-ness that governs my existence on dry days. So there.
I don't always suffer from the grumpy cat syndrome but I do occasionally consciously exercise the special grumpy gland located anterior to the diaphragm in my body. And why yes, I do blame the weather. Apart from the many medical benefits of 41 degrees of heat and 99% humidity on the human body (dark chocolate skin instead of Indian caramel confectionery among others), it stimulates a lot of healthy behavioural practices as well. Like the way I used to hang up my clothes to dry without subjecting them to a wash back in college because a casual soak in natural sebaceous sweat for 3 hours and a dab of Adidas' finest deodorant seemed to do the job just fine. Skeptical, are you? You should try it. Four years and my clothes never shrank an inch!
But if there's one thing that heat and humidity isn't good for, it's the general demeanour of people. If a survey was conducted on the average length of sentences and most commonly used words in Summer, they would most certainly be 2 words long and 'Huh...*groan*'. Slouching becomes perfectly acceptable in Summer and people inadvertently demonstrate an affinity for Twilight by glistening in sunlight. Although I suspect that has more to do with sweat than any vampiric tendencies. Speaking of blood-sucking wretches, have you noticed how taxi-drivers just become more belligerent during May? I think there is an annual convocation of the union members of Taxi-drivers Inc. every May when they chant Lord Krishna's name, spontaneously combust and are immediately transformed into Biharis. Ah well, at least the good conversation you'll have on a ride from Southern Avenue to Maddox Square will give you a good bang for your buck. Which doesn't really apply here I know, but it is a phrase I picked up during MBA and I really want to use it more often.
I know what you're thinking. Why would you take a cab from Southern Avenue to Maddox when there is a perfectly well managed bus system along the same route? More importantly, why don't you just drive? I will answer that question by allowing you to choose from a number of options - 1) We don't own a car at the moment, my dad sold it off because he intends to buy a new one (which is what I tell people) 2) It is a stupid generic Alto and I'd rather die than be caught dead in it (which is what I tell people when I'm drunk) and 3) I'm too afraid to drive (which is plain and simple, the honest truth). Frankly, it just alarms me how every friggin' person I know is self-assured enough to roll a 2-tonne metal machine onto the road and propel it at 60 Kmph down streets with casual pedestrians and the odd cow. Are you not afraid that middle-aged aunty who thinks footpaths are a decadent trifle that exist for the plebeians is going to walk right in front of your car when you least expect it? Are you not haunted by the possibility of being furiously honked at for driving into a No-Entry that was just put there for the amusement of the traffic police? If I call you a prick, will you not bleed? Have you no conviction of personal inadequacy? Fie, I say. Because I'm in the mood to be slightly British.
I know this is a distressingly, unremittingly, excruciatingly self-indulgent post, but I like to think of it as my oeuvre of grouchiness and disdain which is an expression of the perpetual 'Oh-sod-it!'-ness that governs my existence on dry days. So there.
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