In a few short years, we have ruined the beautiful city of Bangalore. Trees have given way to tech parks and we have dumped debris and toxic waste into our lakes. The city though is only a microcosm of what is happening to the world. Pretending that global warming is a hoax, is like the Titanic believing that the iceberg is a figment of imagination.
On a lighter and airier note…
We move to Bangalore from horrendously hot North India and I prance with delight on moving to a city which has 15c to 25c weather all year around. I make rude gestures to our air-conditioner and gleefully give it away.
SG, he who likes sleeping in the Tundra temperatures, mysteriously damages the ceiling fan in our bedroom. Something to do with trying to fold a quilt. I laugh fondly at my husband’s little eccentricities. After all, we have such great weather, who needs artificial cooling?
I occasionally try to turn the fan on. It makes really loud noises and threatens to fall on our heads, whirling blades and all. I chuckle at it. What an odd little fan. I snuggle into the cool sheets in the middle of summer.
Summer days are a little warm. SG thinks we should have the fan on, but I can’t hear myself think with it on. We discuss it like civil adults and SG spends some time straightening the blades out. It’s still a bit dodgy, but peace is restored along with the evening breeze.
The days are decidedly warmer. The fan now has two speeds, very low and manic chainsaw. Even I talk about getting it fixed. We bicker about who will take care of it. By the time, we reach a conclusion (outsource the project to SG’s dad) the rains arrive and we, once again, forget all about it.
The rivers run dry and temperatures rise. We argue, but can’t hear ourselves over the fan that despite screeching like a metal banshee is barely churning the soup-like air. We get the electrician to come ‘take a look at it’. Let me be honest, SG’s dad gets his electrician to come take a look at it. He fiddles with the controls, and prescribes immediate replacement. We are by now willing to sign over our life savings to anyone who can help us breathe. The man whistles merrily and promises to be back with a new fan. The old fan, sulking from being mauled, behaves like a two year old in the supermarket candy aisle. The neighbors hear it wailing and look at us suspiciously. The harbinger of cool air, the electrician, goes ‘to his native’ (which ostensibly means a short visit home, but in reality is a metaphor for ‘disappearing with your money’). The rains show up tardily like an errant school boy and once again, amnesia strikes us.
It’s still winter in many parts of the world. Temperatures are already above 30 c in Bangalore and the local Met are morosely shaking their head.
We fear switching on the fan. The words ‘air conditioner’ and ‘buy’ are mentioned in the same sentence.