Warning: what follows is not suitable for small children. It wasn't really suitable for me, either.
So as a lot of people know, you can't stop living life because of the weather. Is it 115 degrees outside? Is is pouring the wrath of unspecified gods? Strap your boots on and get out there.
This mentality has led to some commutes that I can only describe as harrowing. The stories of these commutes could be turned into movies starring interchangeable blonde actresses and/or Halle Berry, and later spoofed by struggling Asian-American comedy troupes wondering why the hell nobody in Hollywood can find any Indian actresses. This is one such story.
So there I was, at dance class. I won't specify what kind of dance I'm studying, but let's just say that at 6:30 on most mornings, an hour when decent Delhi citizens are...nonexistent as always, I can occasionally be found wandering the streets in search of an auto, wearing a costume of pajamas and bowler hat.
Enjoy that mental image. Anyway, my dance group has been loading up on extra rehearsals in advance of an upcoming performance, and last night, at about 9 pm, I left the dance studio only to discover that outside the apocalypse had come.
For those who have never stood on a besmirched Delhi street in the midst of monsoon rains, here is a visualization exercise: Imagine being fully submerged in a pool full of tepid, filthy water. There might be rats. There are definitely dogs. Occasionally, you hear honking, which is either the imagined sound of vehicles or the mating call of a land-dwelling whale. It's impossible to really tell, since land and sea have swapped places.
Okay, I may be exaggerating. But seriously - at times like this, I wish for an Ark, or at least an inflatable Land Rover (?). Lacking either of those, I turned to my friend from dance class and asked her if she wanted to share an auto back to our neighborhood.
"Oh, my driver's coming," she said. "But you can come along." On a rainy night, this was nothing short of an actual miracle. I was a Chosen One, I would be chaffeured.
Except it was not to be. After about ten minutes of standing around in the studio lobby looking like unusually attractive loiterers (this is not arrogance, the bar for "physical attractiveness" in the loitering profession, at least in Delhi, is not high) her phone rang.
"My driver has been rained off the road," she said. Which actually should have served as more of a cautionary sentence than it did. "But I can drive the car home."
This still seemed like a much better idea than walking half a mile in search of an auto. In addition to the random bilge-water collecting in the streets, I was afraid for my bowler hat, which has never been sturdy.
We hopped across the flooded street, rainwater sloshing up to our ankles, to where her car was parked under the shadows of the trees.
We got in.
She tried to start the car. It sputtered and died. But before the lights on the dash went out, I briefly caught the worrying orange flash of the engine light. Hmm. Troubling.
Meanwhile, the rain continued to beat down on the car with the energy of an angry mob.
"Try again," I suggested.
She turned the key four more times. Eventually the engine turned over.
"The thing is," she said. "The car is out of petrol." I digested this.
"Do you think we'll stall on the road?" Arguably, the relationship between "Delhi streets" and "driving" is never 1:1, but a highway is still not the best place to chill out.
"If we do, I'll call my driver," she said. I thought - but did not say - that unless her driver could arrive in time to single-handledly hold back oncoming traffic, his energies would be wasted.
Meanwhile, she began the process of turning the car around.
Now, I do not know how to drive stick shift. I admit this. But does every driving maneuver require turning the gearshift in a 360 degree circle several times? Somehow I doubt it. Anyway, we were stopped for so long in the street that one of the neighbors, apparently concerned, braved the pouring rain to come knock on the car window.
"Are you all right?" he mimed. If this were indeed a horror movie, he would either be the killer or the last person to see us alive (or both, clearly.)
"Yes," she said, although it was an optimistic answer. After a few more false starts we managed to turn the car around and started on our way out of the neighborhood.
"You know, I can't see anything out of the windshield," she said. The windshield had indeed fogged over completely. Fortunately, I was carrying this garment that in India is known either as a dupatta or a noose, depending on how comfortable the wearer is with traditional Indian dress. It is not normally referred to as an "all purpose rag" but nonetheless I took mine off and began swabbing the windshield at regular intervals.
"Thanks," she said.
We reached the highway. She merged onto the highway without looking for oncoming traffic.
I continued swabbing.
Her phone rang. I reached into the backseat and pulled it out.
"It's Papa," I said, looking at the screen.
"Answer it," she said.
"Hello," I said. "Are you looking for your daughter?" Arguably not a reassuring opening line. Also, I was speaking Hindi, which is doubly scary since I don't sound like an Indian.
"Uh yes," he said.
"She's driving," I said.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked, politely considering the circumstances.
"I'm a friend of hers from dance class," I said.
"Is she having trouble driving in the rain?" he asked, in a classic example of what my professors from journalism school would have referred to as "burying the lede."
"Are we having trouble?" I asked her, conversationally.
"Oh no, we're fine," she said, as I took another swipe at the windshield and the engine light contined to flare.
"We're fine," I told him, then ended the call and tossed the phone into the backseat.
"He's just worried," she continued, pleasantly enough, "because I've never driven alone before."
I really don't remember anything that happened after that.
So as a lot of people know, you can't stop living life because of the weather. Is it 115 degrees outside? Is is pouring the wrath of unspecified gods? Strap your boots on and get out there.
This mentality has led to some commutes that I can only describe as harrowing. The stories of these commutes could be turned into movies starring interchangeable blonde actresses and/or Halle Berry, and later spoofed by struggling Asian-American comedy troupes wondering why the hell nobody in Hollywood can find any Indian actresses. This is one such story.
So there I was, at dance class. I won't specify what kind of dance I'm studying, but let's just say that at 6:30 on most mornings, an hour when decent Delhi citizens are...nonexistent as always, I can occasionally be found wandering the streets in search of an auto, wearing a costume of pajamas and bowler hat.
Enjoy that mental image. Anyway, my dance group has been loading up on extra rehearsals in advance of an upcoming performance, and last night, at about 9 pm, I left the dance studio only to discover that outside the apocalypse had come.
For those who have never stood on a besmirched Delhi street in the midst of monsoon rains, here is a visualization exercise: Imagine being fully submerged in a pool full of tepid, filthy water. There might be rats. There are definitely dogs. Occasionally, you hear honking, which is either the imagined sound of vehicles or the mating call of a land-dwelling whale. It's impossible to really tell, since land and sea have swapped places.
Okay, I may be exaggerating. But seriously - at times like this, I wish for an Ark, or at least an inflatable Land Rover (?). Lacking either of those, I turned to my friend from dance class and asked her if she wanted to share an auto back to our neighborhood.
"Oh, my driver's coming," she said. "But you can come along." On a rainy night, this was nothing short of an actual miracle. I was a Chosen One, I would be chaffeured.
Except it was not to be. After about ten minutes of standing around in the studio lobby looking like unusually attractive loiterers (this is not arrogance, the bar for "physical attractiveness" in the loitering profession, at least in Delhi, is not high) her phone rang.
"My driver has been rained off the road," she said. Which actually should have served as more of a cautionary sentence than it did. "But I can drive the car home."
This still seemed like a much better idea than walking half a mile in search of an auto. In addition to the random bilge-water collecting in the streets, I was afraid for my bowler hat, which has never been sturdy.
We hopped across the flooded street, rainwater sloshing up to our ankles, to where her car was parked under the shadows of the trees.
We got in.
She tried to start the car. It sputtered and died. But before the lights on the dash went out, I briefly caught the worrying orange flash of the engine light. Hmm. Troubling.
Meanwhile, the rain continued to beat down on the car with the energy of an angry mob.
"Try again," I suggested.
She turned the key four more times. Eventually the engine turned over.
"The thing is," she said. "The car is out of petrol." I digested this.
"Do you think we'll stall on the road?" Arguably, the relationship between "Delhi streets" and "driving" is never 1:1, but a highway is still not the best place to chill out.
"If we do, I'll call my driver," she said. I thought - but did not say - that unless her driver could arrive in time to single-handledly hold back oncoming traffic, his energies would be wasted.
Meanwhile, she began the process of turning the car around.
Now, I do not know how to drive stick shift. I admit this. But does every driving maneuver require turning the gearshift in a 360 degree circle several times? Somehow I doubt it. Anyway, we were stopped for so long in the street that one of the neighbors, apparently concerned, braved the pouring rain to come knock on the car window.
"Are you all right?" he mimed. If this were indeed a horror movie, he would either be the killer or the last person to see us alive (or both, clearly.)
"Yes," she said, although it was an optimistic answer. After a few more false starts we managed to turn the car around and started on our way out of the neighborhood.
"You know, I can't see anything out of the windshield," she said. The windshield had indeed fogged over completely. Fortunately, I was carrying this garment that in India is known either as a dupatta or a noose, depending on how comfortable the wearer is with traditional Indian dress. It is not normally referred to as an "all purpose rag" but nonetheless I took mine off and began swabbing the windshield at regular intervals.
"Thanks," she said.
We reached the highway. She merged onto the highway without looking for oncoming traffic.
I continued swabbing.
Her phone rang. I reached into the backseat and pulled it out.
"It's Papa," I said, looking at the screen.
"Answer it," she said.
"Hello," I said. "Are you looking for your daughter?" Arguably not a reassuring opening line. Also, I was speaking Hindi, which is doubly scary since I don't sound like an Indian.
"Uh yes," he said.
"She's driving," I said.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked, politely considering the circumstances.
"I'm a friend of hers from dance class," I said.
"Is she having trouble driving in the rain?" he asked, in a classic example of what my professors from journalism school would have referred to as "burying the lede."
"Are we having trouble?" I asked her, conversationally.
"Oh no, we're fine," she said, as I took another swipe at the windshield and the engine light contined to flare.
"We're fine," I told him, then ended the call and tossed the phone into the backseat.
"He's just worried," she continued, pleasantly enough, "because I've never driven alone before."
I really don't remember anything that happened after that.
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