by Jug Suraiya
Of the 25 days we were in London, it rained for 23.
Dark clouds gloomier than an economist's forecast covered the skies, turning
Britain's summer into a winter of discontent. The locals hated the cold and the
wet. Bunny and i loved it. The locals thought we were mad to prefer rain over
shine. Either that or we'd overdosed on bhatti takeaway, the latest culinary
import from India which has overtaken tikka masala as Britain's national dish
and a surfeit of which might well have hallucinogenic effects.
Our preference for cloudy skies over clear had
nothing to do with insanity or bhatti cuisine. It had to do with the grass
being greener on the other side. In India, or at least in northwest India where
we live, we get too much sun and not enough rain, particularly in a
monsoon-deficit year as 2012 is turning out to be. The British, on the other
hand, get too much rain and not enough sun, at the slightest glimpse of which
they rush in hordes to hard, pebbly beaches where they take off their clothes
and turn themselves into human barbecues in a tribal ritual called sunbathing.
Having left Delhi when it was a sweltering 45
Celsius, Bunny and i didn't miss the sun at all. And we welcomed the rain
clouds that kept it away, ensuring that the mercury never went beyond a maximum
of a very pleasant 20 . Perfect for the best and cheapest pastime that London
offers: walking. Bunny and i love walking. We particularly like walking in a
place like London where, unlike in India, the ground under your feet is
pavement not pothole, and you can stride out confidently without fear of
falling down an open manhole or being run over by a psychotic bus driver.
Equipped with umbrellas - which we'd had the
foresight to pack in our luggage - and thick-soled, puddle-resistant shoes, we
walked all our favourite walks. We walked along the banks of the Serpentine in
Hyde Park where tourists fed bread crumbs to a quackle of ducks. We walked
through the attar-scented fragrance of Queen Mary's Rose Garden in Regents
Park. We walked all the 3½ miles along the tow-path of the Thames from Richmond
to Teddington Lock, where The Anglers, a picturesque riverside pub, gave us a
much-deserved lemonade and salad for lunch. And when we caught the bus back to
central London it was still rainy and cool. Lovely.
It's not just about walking, or rain, or sunshine.
It's about how all of us yearn for that which we don't have. When we are
children, we can't wait to grow up and become adults and not have parents and
teachers forever telling us to do our homework, and not watch TV and brush our
teeth before going to bed. And when we become adults and are always fretting
and worrying about careers, and running a household, and telling our children
to do their homework, not watch TV and brush their teeth before going to bed,
we long for the carefree years of childhood.
The paparazzi-pursued celebrity seeks the
protective cloak of anonymity, while the anonymous hunger for the limelight of
fame. Those who are brown-skinned use Fair & Lovely to whiten their
complexions, and those who are white-skinned spend fortunes getting themselves
fashionably suntanned. Plagued by noise and pollution, the urbanite dreams of
the quietness of the countryside, even as the rustic hankers for the bustle and
bright lights of the city.
Yes, the grass is always greener on the other side.
And only part of it is thanks to rain. The other part of it is thanks to the
colour of envy.
To paraphrase the poet: We look hither and yon, and
pine for what we've not/ Our deepest longings are never for what we've got.
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