IT POURS WHEN...

Okay, it's pouring like crazy in Mumbai. Trains have stopped, there's knee-deep water everywhere. But that's not news any more.

Feels like I'm walking through rush hour at Churchgate station: It's horribly suffocating; the lady next to me gives me a jerk here, a nudge there, even flattens my toes under her stilettos, but I'll give her the look and run on. It's that mechanical.

Extremes of weather? When has that ever been more than a nuisance? Endless digging that leaves huge craters on streets, a municipality that raises the middle finger in your face and keeps passing the buck as monsoon after monsoon wreaks havoc? Oh shut up.

You're sounding like my bai -- every year, she has a story to tell. This time, she told me how her neighbour didn't let her kids get off the cot in their little hut, with a mini-flood in there. Or how all their food got spoilt, and they couldn't afford to restock. I didn't so much as flinch. Soggy, soppy stuff.

By the way, we now have a name for all this: 26/7. A lousy memory. It just flashes past, like the lady who works at the sales tax office in Churchgate.