THE WEE HOURS OF MORN

The euphoria of childhood rains is replaced by the perpetual perspiration mode. Nature has written a special addendum to the monsoonal deluge with a crackling sun and 200% humidity. As a result, one feels like freshly washed clothes perpetually being wrung out of excess water, if any left still, so to speak. This is the most enervating, exasperating and unproductive season converting homosapiens into useless zombies. Morning or evening walks are simply no-no because the clothes get glued to your limbs so irritatingly that movement of any form becomes a repulsive exercise. There's a warm, suffocating stream of vapour constantly rising from the soil which once inhaled (there's no other choice) ignites tongues of flame inside the veins. The ktichen feels like a blast furnace. A portable AC ( a sort of a back pack) seems to be the only solution for survival which remains yet to be discovered, mass manufactured, wildly advertised and cunningly marketed to produce 400% surplus value for the patent holder.

The only time of comfortable existence is the wee hours of the morning when the sky is not yet streaked with grey and the night has still not discarded its electric blue veil. The crescent moon has a fading smile on its face and the stars blink like drowsy kids ready to flop their heads down on their mother's shoulders and dose off to dream. I and Mr. Boots take a stealthy walk around the block, come back and empty a bottle of frozen water each. This is the time when night sounds are mute. The tired night guards steal a quick nap on the stone benches lining the streets. This is the time when I stretch my hands out to my creator and have an intimate conversation with Him. A conversation that leaves me fulfilled, energized, focussed and ready to confront the world.

Gradually the sun peeps up from the easterly direction and the moon quietly tiptoes out of the horizon. Time to have a cup of steaming hot tea, pick up the newspaper, water the plants and welcome the milkman. The beginning of a new day. As the sun spreads its golden man across the sky I pick up the threads of my new found valour to face my opponents eye to eye.