…starts around March,
that’s right, when it quickly
climbs to over 30, Celsius that is.
At first the nights
are still your friend, but one day
you open the cold water tab
and get wet without
the slightest shiver.
In fact you can cut
the air with a knife,
they were right, you know.
And the only place left
to sleep is the marble floor,
you won’t mind your back
aching one bit. No need
to worry about mosquitoes:
by May they’re too exhausted
to bite. It’s 42 now. Believe it.
At this time you don’t leave
the house anymore except
to quickly hang the laundry:
clean sheets on your bed again
ten minutes later.
If you think ice cream or ice cubes
will help, you tongue is too slow
to agree.
But so far you haven’t even
sweated that much, dry air
has crinkled your skin, thirst
bouts come like attacks.
In July when it changes
to ninety percent humidity,
you know you can’t take
another hour of this:
the drenched shirts, sticky pants,
that warm wall hitting your face
when you open the doors at six
in the morning, and the stink
of fungus growing in corners
of your house you can’t reach.
No, not another minute without losing
your mind, and you promise yourself
never again an Indian summer.
A summer in India that is.
This Poem was written in Delhi on 3 May 2011
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