It is a dry February day and even at 10 in the morning the sun bears down like it has plans of magnifying its heat and burning some DTC buses in Delhi.
Only it is Bangalore, and such heat is unheard of.
Even Delhi is pleasant now, “just lazily slipping into spring,” as one particularly jealous friend informed last night. “Let the summer come, and we will have reason to rejoice as you all burn there,” I thought as I hung up on her. But to accept to the denizens of Delhi that Bangalore is actually rather warm, is hurting my pride. Where was it that I read “denizens of Delhi” first? In a letter from Upamanyu Chatterjee to David Davidar, in the files of The Last Burden, if I remember. I should have torn off that handwritten note from the file and kept it folded in my wallet, but my wallet contains other unwanted stuff now, and some long unused condoms.
As I wait on my bike for the signal to turn green, the heat is burning my right thigh. I desperately seek a bigger vehicle to offer some shade, but am in the right lane and nobody can squeeze between me and the median. A giant oncoming BMTC Volvo stops on the other side and I pretend to listlessly look inside. From the corner of my eye I can see a young boy ogling at my bike and trying to figure out the make. I sit up straight on the saddle, posing like a true biker. But the traffic moves and the relief of the shade is short lived.