‘Ants mean rain,’ I announced, sweat trickling like rivulets down my face. ‘I thought ants mean bites,’ my husband laughed, looking pointedly at my left eyelid that had begun to swell, courtesy an ant bite. ‘Maybe, but they mean rain too,’ I responded, continuing to gaze squint-eyed at the rows of ants marching over the bedspread with the same joy that Wordsworth is supposed to have felt when he saw a rainbow in the sky.
Normally ants – big, small, black, red, the biting kind or the harmless variety – evoke only one reaction in me: ‘Get rid of them.’ But this time, I was actually pleased, detecting in their presence a hint of approaching rain. For the city has never been so hot.
‘The temperature is 38 degrees, 38! Can you beat it?’ I remarked, watching the weather bulletin after de-anting the bedspread. As if on cue, the power failed and I got the full impact of the 38 degrees. I folded a newspaper supplement and fanned myself with it.
‘Palakkad can,’ replied my husband, who had worked there for a few years. ‘Anyway, why all this fuss?’ he asked, before remarking playfully that with one eye half shut, I bore a marked resemblance to the actress Lalitha Pawar when she played the nasty mother-in-law in old Hindi films.
It’s difficult to think up a spirited retort when your eye hurts and you are sweating like a pig. But I did manage to glare with one eye. ‘Haha, now you look exactly like her,’ he chortled before reverting to the topic of summer heat. ‘Palakkad resembles a furnace in summer. But did we complain? Never. Because the Malayali knows how to combat heat.’
And he sang the virtues of the cotton dhoti and the mundu. Sweating, he contended, is nature’s way of cooling the body. ‘And when it gets hot, remove the shirt. Simple. If it becomes too hot, remove the vest and what do you get? The air conditioned effect.’ He demonstrated this.
My husband seeks warmth with the enthusiasm of a sun-loving animal; it’s the cold that he finds unbearable. ‘Take a few extra baths,’ he added. ‘Sleep with the windows open in houses with wooden ceilings or thatched roofs, houses built in sylvan settings. Hey presto, the heat is overcome. We shall overcome, we shall overcome, we shall...’ ‘Wait a minute! You got the verb wrong,’ I cut his refrain short. ‘The Malayali knew how to combat heat. Not any more.
Try asking an IT professional or a bank officer to wear dhoti or mundu to office and do a strip tease when the temperature starts soaring. And all very well to talk about natural air conditioning, but spare a thought for women. Now don’t start off about the enlightened Attingal Maharani’s attire when she received the British negotiators. That was long ago, before the British brought Victorian prudery with them and left it behind when they returned to England.’
To my great relief, power was restored and I took a casual look at the newspaper supplement that had been my temporary fan. It was a summer special, full of exciting possibilities for the season and cheerful suggestions on how to combat the heat. Recipes for a variety of refreshing drinks, ice creams in exciting flavours, exotic desserts and cool salads made it seem as if summer was a treat waiting to be experienced.
Sweat running down your face? Change the make-up. Sticky hair? Go for a smart boy cut. In the fashion section, models looked cool flaunting gorgeous cotton saris and light, summery dresses in pastel shades. There were advertisements for air conditioners, fans, water coolers, trendy sunglasses and the right footwear. The tourism industry dangled the carrot of idyllic spots where a sweltering summer would be transformed into one long honeymoon.
Tell me another, I snorted, pushing my sweaty hair back. The truth about summer is intense heat, power failures, water shortage, dust, fatigue, profuse sweating, and summer special diseases. The mindless cutting of trees and the new apartment culture have made it worse. The only way to beat it is to complain and bear it.
‘Drink lots of water, don’t get dehydrated,’ my husband offered yet another pearl of wisdom and took a deep swig. ‘Aaaah!’ he exclaimed. ‘Yes, nothing like the satisfaction of drinking water,’ I replied. ‘Satisfaction?’ he spluttered. ‘The water jug is full of ants.’ I looked with some pleasure at his swelling lips and the hint of dark clouds in the horizon.
[khyrubutter@yahoo.com]
(A fortnightly column by the city-based writer, academic and author of the Butterfingers series)
