Rains are a pain!

Bombay has a special relationship with rains. Tired of sweating profusely all summer, people wait eagerly for the first showers to cool down and cleanse the city. People offer prayers if the monsoons are delayed by a week, and some unfortunate frogs/ donkeys are married off.

Pic Credit: Bombay Times.

The city papers run a series every year, a beautiful pic of a star prancing happily along Marine Drive/ Bandra bandstand (this time, they had Amrita Rao, swoon!), accompanied by an article where two-paise worth celebs give their oft-repeated “rains mean romantic walks”, “I love the smell of the earth”, or “a chance to enjoy some hot chai and pakora” quotes. There is also a mandatory pic of some slum kids joyously diving into a pool of water, essentially an overflowing sewer but who cares? Tis the season to be silly.

But I hate rains. Hate them. Hate them. Hate them.

Rains bring back a flood of bad memories. Or memories of bad floods. Whatever.

Rains meant slush and grime on the roads. Mud sticking all over my precious Hercules MTB on the ride to school. And of course mud all over my shoes which had to be polished again and again. And mud getting splattered all over me thanks to potholes on the road and an overspeeding car. (And no, I did not throw a stone at the car. Nor did I grow up to be a milkman singing about cows, fight with my best friend and become a millionaire to extract revenge. The prospect of dancing with Khushboo wasn’t too appealing, you see.)

Rains meant flooding on the streets. Walking through knee-deep water, with pieces of garbage/excreta floating nearby, to get to college. Trains getting cancelled, leading to fights with the rickshaw guy while getting drenched as he nonchalantly refuses to go by the meter and asks for three times the fare.

Rains meant strong cold winds. Umbrella getting overturned, making me feel stupid. Rain coming down at an angle, making me wet in spite of the umbrella. Wet trousers flapping, wet shirts clinging to my back, and wet socks creating a nasty stink. Yuck in all caps cannot even begin to describe it.

Rains meant running noses. And a bad cold. And wheezing through the night, sitting up propped by pillows, unable to lie down, unable to sleep. Having to eat that yucky Chyawanprash. And breathe in that yuckier inhaler thing.

Rains meant no cricket after school. And we never discovered the joy of football in the rains. And damp carrom boards where the coins never moved smoothly unlike in the summer vacations.

Rains meant watching what you eat. And still coming down with a bout of those motions, and having to survive on bread and idly and boiled vegetables. And having to drink boiled water. One would rather die of thirst.

Rains meant shivering baths. For a long time, sudu thanni was a pseudo thing, and real men took cold water baths. Even if they had running noses and wheezing problems later.

I am yet to have a single good experience in the rains. Ok, the long walks on Marine Drive and the chocolate cake at Barista, Bandstand might qualify. But even those were spent envying other cosy couples, while moaning about my loser status to other loser friends.

Maybe a couple of treks to some nearby hills. Matheran. Lohgad. But one place reeked of horseshit and I lost a floater in the other. Had to go around walking barefoot. So, bad there too.

So, all you romantic types can enjoy your walks and chai-pakoras, and smell the earth, whatever that means. I prefer to curl up in my bed and sleep it off. Unless Amrita Rao is walking in the rain. Or Asin. In which case, count me in.