I've just returned from Delhi, and being so complacently lame-arse, couldn't resist blogging about the trip rightaway. I will degrade myself further. Like every other unimaginative soul, I will talk about the weather. The heat there and the heat here.
Spirits are supposed to swamp our souls with a chill, to make us shudder in mindless fear when they pass us by like a dying breath. The spirit of summer obviously wishes to break out of this mould. The spirit of summer likes glares and flares. The spirit of summer likes to hit us right between the eyes, and go- 'How's THAT for subtlety, bitch?'
I would appreciate this rebellious streak, even envy it, had the SoS not been such a bully; and picked on people its own size instead. For it is IMMENSE, and can stretch right out over the city, like an invisible, impenetrable fog. It's stronger, much stronger than us.
Now the nature of SoS seems to change with its geographical location. In Kolkata, it is heavy and soporiphic. We can hear its monotonous, tuneless hum and feel it weighting down upon our shoulders. In Delhi, it is like a restless, furious little devil-child. As it spins and rushes about, you are sucked into a whirlpool of heat that sucks the juice from your veins and spits you out, a mere scab. The SoS of Delhi plays with sandpaper and blowdryers. It is a bad child.
Everyone seems to prefer the Delhi heat to the Kolkata heat. It's not like their opinion is unfounded. In the Kolkata summer, we sweat. We get sticky, stinky, and feel strangely stupid. But even if you are drenched to the bone by sweat, when a gust of wind blows over you, it's like heaven. In Delhi, each time the wind blows and the leaves rustle, and you expect to enter a gentler word, you're just scraping against the sandpaper. Or getting sucked into one giant blowdryer. Or both.
I'll just come to the point instead of attempting prosetry. Dryness doesn't suit me. However, it seems to be better for my hair. Throughout my stay in Delhi, my hair looked sleek and shiny. It made me feel like a princess, despite my overused jeans. I have discovered a sad truth. Humidity makes my hair frizz.
Humidity, you make my hair frizz.
I beg of you, plizz,
Do not tizz
Me like thiz.
Let my occasional spurts of bad humour in no way bely my sincerity.
But on the whole, it was a good trip. I met the boy equivalent of Spriha. He's an adorable kid who talks shit, champions pink and mocks fad dieting- all with equal fervour.
I also met the squishiest, most twinkly-eyed specimen of little girl ever, who told me never to leave Delhi the next time I visited her. Bonding with her baby brother was a little more difficult. My god, the extent one can go to, for the sake of making a baby laugh. I allowed myself to assume the most undignified postures, to contort my facial muscles into expressions I never knew existed. Finally, I managed to evoke a quiet but appreciative chuckle by drumming out nursery rhymes on a tin of butter biscuits. And in the end, that chuckle seemed to compensate for my trauma (both mental and physical.)
But why did I go to Delhi? For the St. Stephens interivew. Let that be another tale, reserved for a day when I can talk of college without wincing.