Thoughts on a rainy day

“The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.” I would like to visit this Spain that Professor Higgins teaches Eliza Doolittle about, where it rains only in the “blasted” plain.
Because Mumbai is a revelation in the monsoon. Anything but in the plains (pun intended). No matter how much you prepare yourself every year before the showers actually start, it will never be enough.
It’s like this. Say one year you get a raincoat/jacket. It will rain so heavily, you will be jealous of everyone who has that obnoxious thing called an umbrella. Next year ofcourse you are (atleast you think you are) wiser. So you buy an umbrella, and begin to flaunt it from the day the Met department shouts “rain”. But then it rains so little till August that you wonder when the rains are actually going to start. You are confused next year. So you make sure you have both at your disposal. But its obvious to you in a few days that the shopping was completely unnecessary, since it seems to rain only when you are inside your office or house or any other darned place that has a hint of a roof. And you are soon wondering what it was you did to make God hate you so much. It’s like buying a shirt or a dress and coming home to discover that it has miraculously shrunk. (Well, either that or you have somehow managed to increase your perimeter in a day.)
A few years back, if someone had told me that a Toyota Quallis could actually submerge in Mumbai rains, I would have personally sent in his application to one of the many asinine comedy shows running on television today. (I am not advertising the Quallis---I don’t even like it---its just—well—a suitably burly example right now.) That was before 26th July 2005. Now if someone tells me this today, I would probably work from home.
Appallingly, the people of this amazing city have become unusually resigned to what we might be subjected to in the monsoon. Strangely, the only mortals that react rather strongly to the rains in this city are the roads—a little drizzle and they become freakishly self-aware. They dent some places, they erupt and disintegrate some places—and some places they just stop existing. But the “spirit of mumbai” (translated—people going to their destinations come heavy rains or whatever else) lives on—and the roads thus die. Not surprisingly then, the ones who suffer most in the monsoons are the poor pedestrians—who not only have no flat surface to walk on, but also have to beware of vehicles speeding.
Coming to the Met department. These guys make me feel I have chosen the wrong career option. In which other job can your livelihood depend on guesses? In no other job can you be so wrong and still get paid—and get publicity too. My mother has a unique take on this. She says the Met department is always accurate—they just print the news reverse. So if they say rain—she travels light—sans rain gear. And to date she has never been wrong. I wonder what they base their predictions on. Really hard to say. But my 8 year old nephew is better at judging if it will rain. But then, again he is also better at using a computer than the entire department put together.
But the best part about rains in this city is how it can turn complete strangers into first-name buddies. In stranded trains and buses, at traffic lights (believe me, that happens), in the crowds and queues at bus/railway stations—the locations and events are countless. One second you are irritated and getting ready to kill every person responsible for the disrupted transport system, and the next second you know the family tree of the lady standing next to you. (I am just being polite here. Family trees would actually also include problems with in-laws, hereditary diseases, diet/fitness plans—you get the drift. You might not always enjoy these monologues, but stuck in rains with nowhere to go—you hardly have a choice.) Not surprisingly then, this season has also been witness to several blossoming romances. (All Bollywood cynics, sorry to burst your reality bubble. These things do happen. The only things that do not happen are the song and dance rain sequences. Hmm. Or maybe they do. We just never get to see them. I would like to think so.) Random (but hopefully cute) strangers offering you umbrellas/seats or even extended arms to jump over that blessed puddle—this is the stuff mushy romance novels are made of. So if only for this reason alone, I am immensely grateful, the rains in Mumbai do not stay mainly in the plains. If they did, I would have nothing much to write about.
Cheers!