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hey say monsoon is the season for romance. Whoever they are, that is. Getting drenched from head to toe isn’t exactly the ideal condition in which you meet up with your significant other, not even if you’re the poetic type, and can go on for hours altogether, romanticizing the season to such an extent that your gullible readers tend to wait with bated breath for its onset … only for their anticipation to be washed away in buckets of muck and acid rain.

You can rant a little bit more in the first paragraph. How you truly hate the rains from the bottom of your heart.

Yes, acid rain.

The pollution in this city is unbearable. Even though stats might say otherwise, I beg to disagree. You can’t breathe while standing at any of the city’s crossroads without choking like how you tend to do on your first long drag. But I digress.Rain becomes an especially sticky issue (and a real sticky one at that), if you happen to be a lazy guy whose girl stays on the other side of the planet (Town is exactly that for a Nagi Mumbaikar like me). In case the reasons for the stickiness are not so obvious, let me clarify:

A) You are a lazy human equivalent of the Great Indian Sloth.

B) She being a girl is finicky, and will under no circumstances let her footwear come in contact with the muck.

If that’s not clarification enough, nothing can be.

Not clear about the previous joke. Thoda aur describe karo.Of course, those who want to persist (and of course the poets) will have their standard pro-monsoon list. They would want us to believe (and also like to themselves) that there are things that you can do only during this time of the year. Ok then…

Cliche: Haathon mein haath daalke Marine Drive par chalenge, sev-batata-paani-puri khayenge, naariyal paani piyenge.

Aftermath: Chikungunya.

Cliche: Long bike ride – just the two of you. All alone. Somewhere away from the chaotic urban jungle.

Aftermath: Your bike skids. You’re lucky – only 205 broken bones. Your girl isn’t. May rest in peace.

Cliche: You and her escape the rigours of day-to-day life and work, and go trekking in the hills of Matheran. Ah the serenity, the tranquility.

Aftermath: You get poisoned by ivy, bitten by mosquitoes (of the Aedes and Anopheles kind) and snakes, and chased by the blood-thirsty carnivores and cannibals, but you finally come out on top. You begin to enjoy the view. Only to be buried under a landslide.

In all seriousness, you’ll die. Even if you somehow manage to survive unscathed, the scars of that romantic-monsoon-gone-terribly-awry will remain etched in your mind for the remainder of your life. Don’t even get me started on the acid rain angle. And poets remember if I can write a whole songbook about my constipation, so can you.


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