Sweat

Flies are swarming over a freshly dropped mound of dung. The creator of this dung is swatting them away with her tail. Some of the flies are changing their course, choosing to settle over a plate of stale idlis a daily labourer just unpacked. A cat is staring at the idlis; crouching, waiting for his invitation to share the meal. The Cat, the cow, the flies, and the labourer– they’re all sheltered from the sun under a rusty awning. I am walking to a destination a little beyond this temporary congregation of living things. Have you been imagining this setting in the middle of a dirty alleyway? Or a construction site? Feel free to pick your scene. In actuality though, it's all happening in the middle of a busy vitrified and ceramic wholesale tile market at noon. Sweat is dripping down the labourer’s forehead. He doesn’t wipe it. The droplets are trickling down his forehead. I look down at the ground to avoid some loose wires, I look back up and see other daily labourers drenched in sweat. Sweat. Rich, middle class or poor - there is no escaping the heat of Mumbai. The back of my t-shirt is drenched with sweat too; I can feel it trickling down my spine and into my underwear. Is reading this gross? Imagine living this nightmare in the middle of the day. The lower it trickles, the higher my temper rises. I hate the heat. 31 degrees, but it feels like 36 my phone says. What the fuck kinda weather is that for the business capital of the country. What the fuck kinda disorganised organised market is this. Why are there so many wires and flies. Why is it so hot. I'm walking right past the labourer now. He glances at my chest, I roll my eyes. Customary exchange in modern day India right? What really gets my blood boiling though are the dung flies. They try and settle on my skin as I break the stale air around him. It makes my skin crawl to think of all the places these flies have visited before touching me. It annoys me more than his wandering gaze - first my chest then my waist. What a joke. He thinks my body is an object made for his viewing. I think he is a savage for eating near a pile of dung. How differently our minds work. How indifferent we are to each other's thought process. In fact, somewhere a superiority complex kicks in. The swarm of flies really infuriate me. As if the sun wasn't enough. They settle back on him, the cow, the cat - as I pass through. Good. 'How dare they land on my skin' I think. As if somehow, I am more human than this labourer on the street. As if my skin, by default of my social and economic class is purer than his. 'What a disgusting thought to have' I think. He clearly doesn’t have a choice. I am not better than him in any way. I may not be a creep but, I'm certainly not above him as far as nature is concerned. I can feel my anger towards the sun, the flies, and poverty melting. Anger towards the sun. Can you imagine that? Anger towards the very thing that fuels our existence? I'm pushing open the door to the tile shop, the air conditioning hits my skin. Lovely. Every other thought has left my brain. What’s the point of this blog? No idea. Probably nothing. The a.c. has me distracted and life seems to be moving on.