I don’t know how it is for you, dear reader, but by mid-May, I begin to dream.
I dream of grey cloudy skies and ominous, portentous breezes. I dream of dark, heavy stillnesses, and distant rumblings of thunder. I dream of the otherworldly hue of green that the tries acquire just before it pours during the day.
I dream of sharp jagged streaks of lightning coursing through moisture laden clouds. I dream of the rains.
And then a trickle of sweat runs down my brow, and I realize that it is only the middle of May, and there are at least three weeks to go. Every year, I go through this routine.
This year, though, is something else.
I know, I know. We say this every year, and how is this year any different? Except it is – this year really is different. Just the other day, I was sitting in my sauna (the other nine months of the year, I call it my apartment), reading the newspaper and trying to enjoy the process of being baked alive. I turned the page over, and stared.
Three motorcycles, the article I was staring horror-struck at cheerily informed me, had gone up in flames the other day at Ghole Road. Because, it went on to say, confirming my worst suspicions in the process, of daytime heat.
I’ll repeat that using other words, just to make sure that none of you labor under any misapprehensions.
Three motorcycles, parked by the side of the road, went up in flames because it was too hot. They literally caught fire because they were out in the sun. If that isn’t hot, I really and truly do not know what is. Those owners of the motorcycles may have to consider looking at Superbike Loans in order to get a new one!
The article in question also carried a rather nice photograph of three men looking at the charred wreckage that survived this act of arson by the sun. The bikes, or what remains of them, are in the foreground of the photograph, while the three men stand in the background.
Their faces aren’t clearly visible, but the emotion that pours out of the photograph is one of utter, disbelieving horror. I found myself in complete agreement.
Now, as I mentioned already, I know that we say every year that this year’s summer is the worst ever, and this has become a bit of an unfortunate annual hyperbole, but I cannot for the life of me remember a year in which motorcycles gave up and committed sati. That, as far as I’m concerned, is strictly a 2018 thing.
I don’t really care where you stand on climate change – about whether it is a real thing or not, and about how serious it is.
I would, however, humbly submit that if motorcycles are beginning to choose spontaneous combustion over humdrum existence, we ought to start to think a little about things getting a little warmer than they ought to be.
And while you reflect on that, allow me to get back to dreaming about petrichor. And while I’m at it, a plate full of pakoras, and a mug of steaming ginger chai. Twenty-one days to go…
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He doesn't expect the paradox to be resolved in his lifetime
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