Drip, drip, drip. Not the intrusive sound of water dripping from a tap, but a quiet incessant murmur that you can hear if you hold your breath. It is only when you venture outside that you see the amount of damage - wet everywhere, dirty pools in the middle of the road, and not a spare rickshaw to be found. Welcome to the monsoons.
I had been cursing people who had sung eulogies of Pune's weather to me before I moved here: I had been waiting eagerly for the rains that would bring respite for the heat. A native of rain-infested Guwahati, I had overlooked the train of inconveniences that faithfully follow the rain god - dirty and water-logged roads, damp washing set out in the balcony, muddy footsteps on the stairs... Even worse in big cities like Delhi and Pune which appear surprised each time the rain god decides to unleash his fury. Combined with the fact that my washing machine still lies untouched in its cardboard box, the monsoons do not seem an inviting prospect.
I long to get hold of those 'friends' who had praised the city's weather.