It's a hundred degrees out there!

This summer is excruciatingly hot and oppressively humid, writes Sunil Lala.

The whining and the complaining have reached a fever pitch - again. You can hear it at parties and get-togethers, at work, on the radio and TV, at your local grocery store, at the gas station, and you can read it in the local newspaper. Wherever you turn, there it is. You cannot get away from it, no matter how hard you try. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am talking about the big whine - the one about the heat, and about how bad it is this year!

Boston this summer is excruciatingly hot, oppressively humid, and completely unbearable of course. Believe it or not, just last week, the temperature touched - horror of horrors - 101 degrees Fahrenheit! To those accustomed to the metric system, that converts to about 38 degrees Celsius. That is, it's about the temperature that causes people in North India to breathe a huge sigh of relief, for it gives them a break from the daily highs that are routinely in the mid-forties.

I remember the summers of my childhood. I remember the blistering, dusty wind blowing on my face as I biked back from school in the afternoon. I remember the absurdity of having to wear a necktie to school, even in the scorching heat, as that one lone squeaky classroom fan struggled in vain in its efforts to keep us cool. I remember our boxy Ambassador car whose only weapons against the soaring temperature were its darkly tinted windows and yes, an actual miniature rotating fan on the dashboard! I remember the mosquitoes, and the simple methods we employed to fight them - a tube of Odomos and a mosquito net.

I remember sitting at the back of our class, our fingers crossed and our little colourful pocket transistors glued to our ears, cheering for Sunil Gavaskar as he patiently and confidently demolished yet another pace attack from Michael Holding and his men. I remember the smell of the "Khus" in the home cooler, as it blew cool moisture laden air into our rooms. I remember my dad showing me how to change the carbon element of the water pump to make sure it kept on pumping water from the tank onto this "Khus". I remember the launch of "Double-Seven" at the annual Trade Fair at Pragati Maidan - a gift from the Janta Party, supposedly better than Coke, and a reminder of Indira Gandhi's humiliating defeat in the general elections. I remember my mom making refreshing cold coffee in her Moulinex mixer, for me and my brother, before we went out to play in the sweltering sun.

And I remember the King of fruit - the mango! And once again, I remember my Dad buying buckets of them and bringing them home for us. Not the pathetic, one type fits all, Mexican or Californian or Floridian variety sold here in the United States. No sir, I mean REAL mangoes. Mangoes of different shapes, sizes and forms, mangoes of different colors, mangoes in all their glory! From Safeda to Langda to Chausa to Dussehris. Each one quite unlike the others. Each one with its own unique scent, its own unique flavour, its own unique taste. Each one with its very own personality.

I remember the blazing afternoon sun. I remember the burning pavement. I remember the dying leaves and the wilting flowers. I remember the rickshaw pullers, their bodies drenched in sweat, their faces darkened by the extreme temperatures, their skin wrinkled way beyond their years, pleading with their seemingly heartless customers for a few extra rupees. I remember the construction workers - men, women and little children - toiling in the oppressive heat, carrying loads of heavy red bricks on their heads, eating sabzi and dry rotis wrapped in dirty pieces of cloth, just trying to survive in a cruel, uncaring world.

But I am most amazed by what I do not remember. I do not remember missing a single day of class because of the weather. I do not remember cancelling a weekend cricket match, ever. And most incredibly, I do not recall a single instance of a rickshaw puller or a construction worker complaining about how hot it was.

They have just declared a heat emergency in Boston I hear - the temperatures have been above a hundred degrees for three consecutive days. They're advising people to stay indoors and drink a lot of fluids. They're telling everyone to use sun block lotions before they venture out. They're asking the homeless to use special shelters that the city has opened for them.

And then, there are the statistics. In the US, there ALWAYS are statistics. Numbers that tell us everything that we ever wanted to know. Numbers that tell us how bad this summer has been. Numbers for the actual temperature and the RealFeel temperature. Numbers for the relative humidity. Numbers for the wind direction, the barometric pressure, the visibility, and the tanning index. Monthly temperature statistics going back a hundred years. And then, there are the scary forecasts - hourly weather forecasts, daily weather forecasts, and extended, weekly weather forecasts.

I turn up the air-conditioning. Actually, it's the humidity that's the worst, I think to myself. Thank God we have two air-conditioning zones. We could not have survived without those. Or without the dual zone climate control in my car. Boy, am I glad I made the right decision on that one! The grass in the lawn is turning a bit yellow. It is quite unfair that the town allows us to use the automatic sprinklers only three times a week. How do they expect us to maintain our yards? I do need to stain the deck too, but I don't think I can do that today. It's way too hot for that.

Tonight we have a party at a friend's house. A "beat the heat" deck party, if you will. With chilled beer and Margaritas and Pina Coldas. A dip in the pool perhaps. I need to buy sunglasses and go to CVS to replenish our stock of bug spray and skin creams with SPF.

It's a hundred degrees out there.