Rain in Mumbai are a bit like the songs of Leonard Cohen. Some grief, some sexy angst, some triumph and defeat, some love (but that's like everywhere, right?), some dirt, some gossip and lots of basic wetness, if you know what I mean.
Imagine if you were to read Sylvia Plath to your lover - in the middle of a rain 'live' - in the middle of water-logged slums.
Rain 'lives' are like cocaine - you know if you stand long enough it'll kill you (IT WILL TOO, IF YOU REALLY STAND LONG ENOUGH) but you can't stop, it's a strange high. The water parts the hair, makes slick, thick strands of it; the water makes drowsy the eyes, but you can't sleep, the water keeps you awake; the water tastes sweet, salty, like forgotten sweat tingling the lips; the water numbs the fingers (everything you eat tastes better); the water is no longer just water - the water becomes you.
Rain in Mumbai is truly a democratic powehouse - the great equaliser. I would be happy tasting blushes, and some whites, on rainy days, Y Tu Mama Tambien again, but it pulls me out. Makes activists out of languorous wine lovers, and lovers.
Think of rain as nothing. Think of rain as everything. Think of rain.
The waters covers the potholes, helps silent lovers in office cubicles play footsie. Trickles down necklines. Makes slum dwellers angry. Makes slum dwellers happy. Cleans homes and hopes. And streets. The water laughs, the Arabian Sea gurgles, the clouds hover above the spas, the hair salons, the sniffs of great sea food, above the red and yellow taxis, the broken buildings, above cut-cut-cut-cut film shoots.
Bungalows - who the hell in Mumbai can afford them - get flooded, making headlines scream. The south giggles at the (sub)-burbs. For once, the bubs cannot throw back 'Even Bachchan lives in the burbs'. No revelry, Jalsa is flooded. Pratiksha is waiting for BMC pumps. Pssh... even those huge generators outside the bungalows... they are saying, conked out in the rains. Big B in a blackout - what a headline!
The water in Marine Drive polish the Queen's Necklace, or is it the queen's necklace? I'm not from Bombay, so I say Bombay. Still. Sometimes, Mumbai.
During the rains, Mumbai is Mumbai. Not Bombay. Of the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation and not Basilico - where Ayesha (Takia) met Farhan - over food, I presume.
On the streets, the OB vans are conking out. Six people around every reporter. Vada paos by the dozen. The drenched news guy is giving a toothy, goofy grin to the serenely soaked news girl. Maybe, they will fall in love, between 'lives'.
Why do women always look better in the rain than men? The rain makes time for questions. The rain stops us from rushing towards answers. Pauses. Quickens the pulse. The waters are carrying disease, and also squeezing out time, for us, in our mad, mad life.
There is nothing more pretty than a pretty woman's toe, and glistening toe ring, kiss by puddles.
The water is kick-boxing with umbrellas. There's nothing better than sharing raincoats, especially if you are wearing Romance by Ralph Lauren or special edition Annick Goutal.
The water makes things possible. Maybe the boy from Borivili has been eyeing that girl from Goregaon for the 'longest time' and finally, one rainy Tuesday, in Dadar station, reaches out and gives her his hand, he wants to carry her over the puddle, but today out their clothes are destined to get dirty. But there is hope. This is their crossing. Finally.
Rain is possibility.first published:July 08, 2006, 14:44 ISTlast updated:July 08, 2006, 14:44 IST
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Not me. Catch a bit of raindrop scaring me! Ha!
Rain in Mumbai are a bit like the songs of Leonard Cohen. Some grief, some sexy angst, some triumph and defeat, some love (but that's like everywhere, right?), some dirt, some gossip and lots of basic wetness, if you know what I mean.
Imagine if you were to read Sylvia Plath to your lover - in the middle of a rain 'live' - in the middle of water-logged slums.
Rain 'lives' are like cocaine - you know if you stand long enough it'll kill you (IT WILL TOO, IF YOU REALLY STAND LONG ENOUGH) but you can't stop, it's a strange high. The water parts the hair, makes slick, thick strands of it; the water makes drowsy the eyes, but you can't sleep, the water keeps you awake; the water tastes sweet, salty, like forgotten sweat tingling the lips; the water numbs the fingers (everything you eat tastes better); the water is no longer just water - the water becomes you.
Rain in Mumbai is truly a democratic powehouse - the great equaliser. I would be happy tasting blushes, and some whites, on rainy days, Y Tu Mama Tambien again, but it pulls me out. Makes activists out of languorous wine lovers, and lovers.
Think of rain as nothing. Think of rain as everything. Think of rain.
The waters covers the potholes, helps silent lovers in office cubicles play footsie. Trickles down necklines. Makes slum dwellers angry. Makes slum dwellers happy. Cleans homes and hopes. And streets. The water laughs, the Arabian Sea gurgles, the clouds hover above the spas, the hair salons, the sniffs of great sea food, above the red and yellow taxis, the broken buildings, above cut-cut-cut-cut film shoots.
Bungalows - who the hell in Mumbai can afford them - get flooded, making headlines scream. The south giggles at the (sub)-burbs. For once, the bubs cannot throw back 'Even Bachchan lives in the burbs'. No revelry, Jalsa is flooded. Pratiksha is waiting for BMC pumps. Pssh... even those huge generators outside the bungalows... they are saying, conked out in the rains. Big B in a blackout - what a headline!
The water in Marine Drive polish the Queen's Necklace, or is it the queen's necklace? I'm not from Bombay, so I say Bombay. Still. Sometimes, Mumbai.
During the rains, Mumbai is Mumbai. Not Bombay. Of the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation and not Basilico - where Ayesha (Takia) met Farhan - over food, I presume.
On the streets, the OB vans are conking out. Six people around every reporter. Vada paos by the dozen. The drenched news guy is giving a toothy, goofy grin to the serenely soaked news girl. Maybe, they will fall in love, between 'lives'.
Why do women always look better in the rain than men? The rain makes time for questions. The rain stops us from rushing towards answers. Pauses. Quickens the pulse. The waters are carrying disease, and also squeezing out time, for us, in our mad, mad life.
There is nothing more pretty than a pretty woman's toe, and glistening toe ring, kiss by puddles.
The water is kick-boxing with umbrellas. There's nothing better than sharing raincoats, especially if you are wearing Romance by Ralph Lauren or special edition Annick Goutal.
The water makes things possible. Maybe the boy from Borivili has been eyeing that girl from Goregaon for the 'longest time' and finally, one rainy Tuesday, in Dadar station, reaches out and gives her his hand, he wants to carry her over the puddle, but today out their clothes are destined to get dirty. But there is hope. This is their crossing. Finally.
Rain is possibility.
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