When it’s hot, nothing seems romantic. I’m not interested in the woman in the pretty burqa lined in blue; I just wonder how hot she must be feeling.
Everything is dull, heavy, stifling, sweaty. I want to be away from other people and inside where there’s an AC.
And then, suddenly, there’s a cool breeze. At that moment, nothing else seems to matter. Nothing else exists, just the feel of the cool air on my hot skin.
When I was in college and lived in sultry Guwahati, and I got home from classes in the late afternoon, my mom would give me triangles of watermelon or long slices of cucumber dusted with salt. Sometimes accompanied by a glass of iced lemonade. I would sit on the cool floor under the fan, leaning against the bed, and let the cool slide down my throat and into my body.