Snapshots of My Life: Monsoon Edition

The "Suspect" Puddle:
It wasn't there just two days ago, this puddle. In fact, you can't remember seeing a hole in the road large enough to warrant a puddle of this size. It's taken over the entire road and the only room left is where the non-existent sidewalk should be, a narrow, muddy, trash-ridden, sort-of-resembling-quicksand strip that doesn't look at all promising as a walking trail. Besides the other people are just walking through the puddle as if there's nothing unappealing about stinky brown water of unknown depth with who-knows-what floating in it. The two men on the other side of the puddle are watching you carefully, you in your hiked up salwar pants and rainbow umbrella from home, watching to see what the "Amreekin" will do. But you are a tough cookie, you little Amreekin. With a quick glance at the men who are watching you, you step into the puddle. Oh my, your rubber sandals hit a squishy bottom (why squishy? oh god, why squishy?) and you know now that is a suspect puddle. Suspect. You imagine a gravel bottom instead of this muck that is definitely all over your feet. You walk purposefully through this suspect puddle, thinking wistfully about the less suspect variety of puddle back home, where a rainbow slick of oil is the most egregious substance. You know that this puddle contains the feces of the poor children who were pooping by this road only two days ago, the urine of the goats and dogs that wander the streets, the leftover chai grounds, the leaking oil from the auto-rickshaws, the trash and muck and filth that is this poor neighborhood where you work. But before you know it you step out of the puddle and look down at your feet (which will be washed when you get to work in two minutes, so really, what's the big deal?) then up at the men who are still watching you. "Lots of rain has come," one of them says in Hindi. You smile, nod and reply in Hindi, "Yes. I like the rain." They laugh, roaring their approval and you keep walking, you, the little-Amreekin-with-the-dirty-feet-and-a-lot-of-dignity.

The Auto-Rickshaw (RICK):
Is a dangerously wet place to be right now. The vinyl-covered backseat is slippery and you have positioned yourself in the very center of the small seat, hoping the rain doesn't come in either side of the rickshaw, openings that just two days ago you loved for their breezy cool. Now, you are holding down the two vinyl flaps on either side of the seat in a futile attempt to keep the rain out. Glancing at yourself in the rearview mirror, you notice the whole effect is sort of "Jesus-on-the-cross"esque, what with your arms splayed on either side and the concentrated look of anguish on your face. Jesus, your little Hindu brain tries to remember, was somewhere in the Middle East, though, wasn't he? The Middle East has no monsoon that you know of and all of a sudden, a nice, dry crucifixion seems a little more appealing than the faux-crucified-in-the-back-of-the-rickshaw thing that you are pulling right now. And that, you realize, is a sick, sick thought.

The Derelict Mangoes:
In two short days, the mangoes have turned wrinkly and disgusting. Despite the obvious change in quality of the majority of the mangoes, your typical fruit-seller will still watch you belly up to his cart/blanket/roadside stall and tell you that the mangoes are "perfect and sweet." Looking at the sad, wrinkled mangoes, you know that this is blatent lie, not even a little close to the truth and you tease the fruit seller, "Arrey, Uncle, these mangoes look terrible. How can they be sweet?" He shakes his head vehemently, "Beti (sweet daughter), these mangoes are perfect and sweet." You touch one and feel its squishy rotting insides give way beneath the gentle pressure of your finger and you laugh aloud. "How much for a kilo?" you ask, your disgust plain on your face. "Forty rupees," he replies and now you snort aloud because that is exactly double the price they were two days ago. You turn to leave and he yells after you, "How much would you like to pay? How about 35?" You raise your eyebrows at him incredulously and wave a hand dismissively. To your surprise, he nods and smiles at you. "That's fine," he says. Because he knows as well as you that his mangoes are festering and rotten, not at all "perfect and sweet."