Rainy Days

Delhi's in the grip of some really fine weather since yesterday. It has been pouring. Somebody up there has suddenly decided to like us. The younger sister is here with me for a week, and so I've been obliged to play the dutiful host, but I don't think I'm doing a very efficient job of it, considering that my natural impulse, whenever I see even a spot of rain, is to dive under the covers and go back to sleep. But, well, I have Friends. The kind who come to the university on a rainy Saturday to study, and then decide that making me fulfil my sisterly responsibilities is a better pursuit than higher education. I am, of course, talking about that intrepid soldier of fortune, Kitkat.

So she walks all over campus in the rain, comes to my hostel and determinedly knocks on the door at 9.30 in the morning. I wake up and stumble to the door, hoping that its just the benevolent roommate. Sigh. She breezes in, while I try to get back into bed, but then she pouts indignantly, "Aren't you even gonna give me a hug?" Of course, I go over to hug her, only to have my sleep-warmness destroyed by this rain-drenched deviant, who goes on to snigger, as usual.

Anyway, the point is, we decided to lunch out, but the autos decided to give the campus a miss. So we went to the gate in the bus, only to find that autos per se were not intended for our use that day. So we waited, waited and waited. Kitkat suddenly remarked that we should stand there looking cute, so that we'd get a lift. In less than five minutes after I had disdained her suggestion, a long black car pulled up, and the driver, a middle-aged man, gestured that we could get a lift from him. I, of course, goggled at him so hard that my eyes began to feel strained. We couldn't obviously take the risk of getting into a stranger's car, here in unsafe ol' Delhi, but Kitkat got her use out of it. She kept insisting that she and the little one had been innocent bystanders, and it was my incandescent charms that had made the guy (nice guy/sleazebag, take your pick, I still can't decide) stop for us. And worse, she labelled my very just indignation at her remarks under the horrible category of 'coyness'. The result of such mental trauma was that I got so drunk on chocolate at the neighbourhood Barista that for twenty minutes, all I could say was "so, so you think you can tell, heaven from hell..." etc.

After that we did our Valentine's Day shopping at the gruesomely pink Archie's outlet, the little one and I for the Other Sister, and Kitkat for her momma. We're sad, dull people, as you can see.

Anyway, we're all at Kitkat's Haryana abode right now, where she's feeding us and making fun of me. Good weekend. We're going shopping in a while. Did I say good weekend? I meant perfect.

Update: - Rule of thumb for perfect things-- never call them perfect till they're over. So we did go shopping, and it was not too bad. But the process of getting there reinforced my belief that buses in Haryana really hate me. The backdrop to this experience is the fact that not only did it rain today, there was actually hail for about twenty minutes. Anyway, the bus that we were on apparently thought it was the Ark, and the conductor thought that he was Noah himself. He was bodily working more and more people into an already bursting bus. Therefore, obviously, on our way out, we had to shove, nudge and push people who were shoving, nudging and pushing back with equal vim. A lady of indeterminate age made a bid for my seat while I was still in it, making me assume my indignant voice and say,"May I make my way out, if you please, lady?" at which she went "Tch tch beta..."....The nerve! Any way, we're back, and my advice is, do not move here if you don't own a car. May not sound very profound now, but one day when you're stuck inside a tiny tinpot bus, with the smell of wind (not the breezy kind, the oh-my-god-who did that kind) and with a million people dying to sit on your lap, you'll remember my wisdom.