Small delights

There are a lot of things I hate doing, but have to do. Accounts and taxes (non sequitur: is death better than taxes as it turns up only once?) come to mind.

Going out in rain is a thing I hate. Rain is nice only when you stand in the balcony and watch it. Rivulets running down the grill, trees swaying, road glistening, an occasional car whooshing by, streaks of lightning followed by rolling thunder - all very nice when you don't have to get wet.

It is more than getting wet. I dislike going out in rain because the city gets drownded, as Huck Finn says. It's that water logging means I have to wade in slush and filth, because sewers are invariably choked with plastic and garbage, and I absolutely hate that.

Friday was bad. The night before had incessant rain, and the streets would be more like rivers than roads. The overnight flooding wouldn't have receded yet, and it was raining thin drizzly rain still. The sky seemed low, the clouds sitting on treetops almost. There was a misty look to the city.

Our area had had intensive drainage work done over the last three years and a pumping station installed, so we were spared, but I had to go out, in the rain. It couldn't be put off. There were few cabs plying. But the cabbies in my area know me, and anything for Missus Em, is their motto.

Is there a lot of water logging at the Great Eastern, I asked anxiously before setting out. That area won't be so bad, I was reassured. As soon as the cab turned into S P Mukherjee Road, I knew it was going to be bad. Traffic was slow, the streets were awash and inconsiderate drivers splashed the pedestrians and sheets of water rolled and heaved in waves. It got steadily worse.

Under the fly-over and near the Victoria Memorial it was nightmare time but, as promised, Great Eastern wasn't awash. But the side street I had to go into was. Not knee-deep as it was in some parts of the city, but this was water I'd have to wade through. One-way street and too much of a detour to enter it. No help for it so I rolled up my jeans and stepped out.

Did I mention I hate wading in the slush? I did?

Work done, I set off for the next destination, Theatre Road. It was flooded, but of course. I was under the mistaken impression that my destination was near Kalamandir, and the cabby and I realised we'd have to go back. Theatre Road is a one-way street. Turn left into Camac Street. And it got worse. The cab felt like a metal coffin being buffeted by the water that was churned up by the traffic. Turn in to Park Street, more water logging. Laboriously crawl along the street and reenter Theatre Road. There was garbage floating. There was muck and more. And the building I had to go into had water sloshing against the steps. Again I had to wade.

Did I tell you I dislike having to get intimately acquainted with sewage and garbage and overflowing drain water? I think I did.

Mission accomplished, I climbed back into the cab. Loudon Street. It was the worst yet. Traffic was at stand still at Minto Park. Each time a car moved the water thumped the cab. When a large SUV moved alongside, water entered the interior.

Try spending an hour in a cab tucking your knees to your chest because water, rain excess and sewage all mixed up, is lifting the car, rocking it, and threatening to come in and making good on the threat.

I was miserable. The driver was miserable. The traffic crawled, we moved a few meters ahead.

I was doing what I usually do at such times to alleviate boredom. Looking at number plates and thinking about numbers. There, ahead of the cab was a car. It had the number 4567. To it's right was another, and it had the number 7654.

Despite the discomfort, despite the hated water logging, sodden footwear, cold and clammy feet and drenched day, I smiled.

Cheers!