For some reason Delhi suddenly thinks it is Cherrapunjee, the wettest spot on earth. There has been more rain over the last month than all the rain that has rained on this benighted city since Taimur the Lame paid us a visit. I mean, this is the city — for God’s sake — that Mad Giyasuddin Tughlak deserted since there was little prospect of rain. Legend has it that this happened because he had incurred the wrath of the seer, Nizamuddin, who spat out, ‘‘Ya base Gujar, ya rahe ujar,’’ which translates as ‘‘May it (Delhi) be inhabited by herdsmen or remain desolate’’ (which explains why we have the Parliamentarians we have). In normal times then this is a city where it rains more dust than water in a normal monsoon season. Where the monsoon arrives and departs before you can croon, Barsaat mein hum se mile tum, sajan. This time, however, things were different. The city, under its steady stream of rain, had more waterways than Venice, with every pothole rapidly becoming a puddle which, in turn, became a lake, which then quickly transformed itself into a Yamuna, in terms of depth, width and swiftness of water currents. Since we didn’t have gondolas, we sailed down the roads in our automobiles, which didn’t make for much sanity. In fact, a combination of water in the brain and water in the carburettor transformed us Delhi’s motorists — who are wild, even in the best of times and regularly practice WWF tackles on steering wheels (why do you think Delhi is the only city in the world which has its traffic lights flashing the message ‘‘Relax’’?) — into something resembling the unwashed hordes that accompanied the said Taimur on his sack-until-you-drop expedition to these parts. We fumed, fretted, snarled, snapped at each other, dented each other’s cars, or gouged out assorted spareparts. Not surprisingly, then, most cars ended up with bodies that looked as if they’ve been put through a giant wringer. Fortunately, as drivers, we are guided by some sound principles. First, we believe lane driving is insane driving. This means that a two-laned road becomes a six-laned one (not counting the pavements that are, in any case, already occupied by cars). Two, don’t press the honk if you want to remain at perfect rest for 48 hours. In other words, hoot louder than a moose on heat. Three, always make way for the other person, if your brain happens to be located in your posterior, otherwise just swoop down on every inch of territory conceded by the car northeast of you, even if it means knocking out the front bumper of the car to the east of you. Yes we are a foul tribe in wet weather, so foul in fact that Pravin Togadia appears like Mother Teresa in comparison, and that you must admit takes some doing. But don’t judge us too harshly because all Delhi’s roads, even in the best of times — and I mean every single road — falls into three broad categories: Those that are under construction; those that are under repair and those that are under construction and repair coterminously (Delhi is the only city in the world where they end up mending a flyover that they had inaugurated the day before because some contractor mistook sand for cement). When these very roads are covered with seven feet of water driving, naturally, becomes dangerous. You never know then when you will bump into a sign saying ‘‘Caution, Men at Work,’’ or a goodly-sized crane left in the middle of the road, or into some stalled cars that had already hit the crane and had been abandoned by their owners. Of course, to avoid the cranes, Delhi’s drivers hoot furiously, but since it is known that cranes are impervious to acoustic instruction, they end up hitting the cranes anyway. The lucky ones who get away with their cars intact make it to their offices, sign on the muster rolls and immediately head for home before the traffic gets worse. Sometimes, they even reach it. If they don’t hit a misplaced crane, that is.
