Take the lid off of an Idli steamer, with a flourish because that's about all the drama there's left in your life, or with a snarled bit of invective which is equally effective when you've forgotten the feeling of hot metal on skin.
A cloud of vapour will rise, desperately seeking the heavens like Icarus on acid, so brave in the moonlight.
As an aside, if you ever wondered how a tree bark curls, now's the time to stick your arm above the vessel and watch your skin pucker, burn, peel and roll over like an obedient dog.
It should ruin the idli but curiosity demands sacrifice.
Anyway, steamed right, the idlis will be cooked perfectly.
Steamed wrong and it's your welcome to Bombay in the summer.
The city is a vessel on a medium flame, trapped within hand-made, self-constructed walls.
People drag themselves out of beds damp with sweat, the pungency an outcome of staleness rather than the spice of an erotic encounter.
Baths are taken, showers are stood under, heads bowed in forced penitence to the uselessness of the act.
The ads lied.
No soap, body-wash, deodorant or perfume can withstand the great sweat cataracts roaring and gushing from every pore and orifice.
Clothes cling to skins with the cloying longing of the one-night stand who does not leave.
Commutes are simply about destinations where air conditioners, fans or both are hopefully waiting.
Everyone's fantasy involves the Liril Girl; not so much her as the waterfall she's under.
So humanity reaches offices in droves, wistfully wishing to bask in the cool, artificial air.
Together, the city stares listlessly at the day.
And those who can afford to, dream of the monsoon at night.
Song for the moment: Nightland - Droid Bishop
A cloud of vapour will rise, desperately seeking the heavens like Icarus on acid, so brave in the moonlight.
As an aside, if you ever wondered how a tree bark curls, now's the time to stick your arm above the vessel and watch your skin pucker, burn, peel and roll over like an obedient dog.
It should ruin the idli but curiosity demands sacrifice.
Anyway, steamed right, the idlis will be cooked perfectly.
Steamed wrong and it's your welcome to Bombay in the summer.
The city is a vessel on a medium flame, trapped within hand-made, self-constructed walls.
People drag themselves out of beds damp with sweat, the pungency an outcome of staleness rather than the spice of an erotic encounter.
Baths are taken, showers are stood under, heads bowed in forced penitence to the uselessness of the act.
The ads lied.
No soap, body-wash, deodorant or perfume can withstand the great sweat cataracts roaring and gushing from every pore and orifice.
Clothes cling to skins with the cloying longing of the one-night stand who does not leave.
Commutes are simply about destinations where air conditioners, fans or both are hopefully waiting.
Everyone's fantasy involves the Liril Girl; not so much her as the waterfall she's under.
So humanity reaches offices in droves, wistfully wishing to bask in the cool, artificial air.
Together, the city stares listlessly at the day.
And those who can afford to, dream of the monsoon at night.
Song for the moment: Nightland - Droid Bishop
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