Wrung Out: Sweating through a Bombay summer.

Right now, Mumbai is an oven. Which makes me something like a rotisserie chicken being twirled around in its centre, hoping someone will turn this thing off before I am burnt to a crisp.

Everyone knows it is hot. The media headlines tell us it’s hot. The world’s economists tell us it’s hot, possibly even hottest in the world, in the history books, in the record books. And it’s no surprise; most of India’s cities are hot in April and May. But this year, Mumbai seems to be wearing the heat like a thick, winter duvet, hugged in close and pulled up around the ears. Breathing in the dense, recycled air that hangs between the buildings warms my windpipe. Anywhere I stand in this city feels as though I am standing directly behind the exhaust of a car. It’s impossible to walk for two minutes and not sweat; it’s impossible to stand still for two minutes and not sweat. In fact, for these two months, sweat, and the resulting ‘sweat management’, becomes pretty much my entire identity. 

Any fold in the skin, be it in a crooked elbow, a bent knee or a slumped torso produces its own naturally occurring hot spring, sending hot, salty rivers of perspiration coursing down my arms, lower legs and stomach in ways that I should probably find more repulsive than I do. This is, of course, the body’s primal response to prevent me overheating, but as I feel myself being wrung out like a bath sponge, I know I have to deploy other, more modern, sweat management measures too, if I want a shred of dignity intact at the end of the heatwave. 

I dress for a mess. I am not talking about seasonal wardrobe choices for optimal comfort levels in summer. I mean a specific set of clothing items into which I can sweat gallons of saline solution without it being visible to the naked eye. Or if it is visible, it’s also acceptable because they think I’ve just been doing some kind of sport (which, admittedly, a lot of the time I have). Block colours are out; busy, complex, brightly coloured patterns are in. Who can say for sure if that’s a sweat stain or a darker detail in the print? Round necks are out; open shirts or vest tops are in. Mumbai has not only shown me that my chest and neck areas play an important role in regulating my body temperature, but also that even the lightest speckling of perspiration on the front of a simple, round-neck white tee can very quickly become a damp patch so extensive I look like I’ve been drooling on myself for hours. Shift dresses are out; co-ord sets are in. This may sound counterintuitive. Surely a shift dress is light and wafty, perfect for maximising air flow around the nethers? You might be right, but I need to dam these rivers with a waistband to prevent them gathering volume and momentum as they stream, unhindered, down towards my feet. 

Sports kit is definitely my friend at this time of year. Wearing it not only excuses the sweat, but it also wicks it away and conceals it between its fibres so I can bring it home with me instead of leaving it in slimy swirls on a plastic chair. Some days, however, the heat and humidity are too much even for the most sophisticated of sports fabrics. A week ago, I left two neat puddles on the floor of the lift from where the sweat had rained down off my fingertips as I headed back to our apartment after an early morning jog. It was barely 7 AM, but already around 80% humidity and, at this time of year, it’s the humidity more than the temperature that is the issue. I hope subsequent lift-riders assumed the culprit was a dog. It certainly smelled like there had been a dog in there. 

Hydration is a real challenge, because as fast as I can drink, my body is busy pushing fluids out of every available pore. Plus, the water here has no nutritional value because it’s all filtered. I rely on electrolytes (also known as oral rehydration salts or ORS) to replenish some of the minerals I can see crusted onto my baseball cap at the end of a long run. Nutritionists here advise that drinking filtered water is as good as drinking no water as far as your cells and recovery are concerned, but that doesn’t mean to say a glug of ice-cold water isn’t a huge relief to my parched mouth and throat. I also have my daily coconut. Well, when in India, right? Some people have fresh, young coconuts delivered to their doorstep every morning, ready to drill or hack into, and then slurp out the naturally electrolyte-rich coconut water, but I don’t trust my drilling skills and so I order mine at the club where we are members. It comes in a little wicker basket and sits there on my table, paper straw at a jaunty angle, an almost cartoonish reminder that the reason it is so hot is because we live in a tropical climate. 

And coconuts are not the only symbol of our tropical lifestyle. As well as being stinking hot, Mumbai is also fragrant — with mangoes. On every market stall, every handcart, every promotional poster, every menu, and under every single one of my finger nails on my left hand there is an abundance of mango. The city is overrun for at least 3 months by this iridescent, perfume of a fruit and it is my favourite time of year. Because it’s the one time of year when Dylan doesn’t complain about it not being mango season. 

We moved apartments just as the mangoes were starting to emerge, shyly at first, onto the streets, quietly shimmering in their orange-green skins. Driving home one day, I spotted our usual mango seller sitting in the doorway of the barbershop just near the entrance to our apartment complex. I didn’t stop, but made a mental note that his mangoes looked good and that perhaps later, when it wasn’t so hot, I’d venture out to buy some. But it didn’t get less hot and I didn’t venture out and so, when Dylan’s prolonged mango withdrawal symptoms reached unprecedented severity levels, I asked in our new tower if anyone had a good mango dealer. As luck would have it, someone did and even better, this guy was responsive on whatsapp and offered to deliver within ten minutes. Ten minutes? He must be nearby, I thought. I hope his mangoes will be as good as my other guy’s mangoes, I thought. Wouldn’t it be funny if after 3 years of walking to his stall, I now suddenly discover that he can deliver, I thought.

The doorbell rang and I don’t need to tell you who was there. It was an emotional reunion as he recognised his top customer three years in a row and as I realised with relief that I never had to walk the 5 minutes to his stall ever again. Three times a week, he now delivers us a dozen mangoes. Yes, you read that correctly. Between three of us, we consume 36 mangoes a week. Thirty-six. Some days, I am fairly sure Jasper poops pure mango, and my sweat probably has a higher concentration of mango than some mango juice drinks. 

Summer in Bombay sees a few changes in my behaviour and routine too. For one thing, despite the clocks not changing in India, my hot season schedule sees my alarm ring 15 minutes earlier than the rest of the year. That extra quarter of an hour is to accommodate my mango peeling and chopping routine. Those three little bowls of sunshine aren’t going to prepare themselves. 

I sit down a lot less in public in summer. This has nothing to do with not wanting to burn myself on hot surfaces and everything to do with not wanting my clothing to stick to my damp, adhesive legs. Unless, of course, I’m in sports kit or, better still, swimwear but there are only a handful of places where that is acceptable. If I do have to sit down, I have mastered the art of subtly skwoodging my backside around the chair before I stand up, mopping up the offending moisture as I leave. I know what you’re thinking — it’s a revolting image, but what’s a girl to do? 

The answer to that is probably stay indoors with the AC on until the monsoon hits. But I don’t want to. Despite the extensive sweat management regime, I still prefer to spend as much time as I can outdoors, under certain conditions. Firstly, I need space. It’s one thing to be marinaded in my own slime, but I do not want to make physical contact with anyone else in a similar state. Secondly, it’s ideal if there is a pool nearby. Thirdly, I definitely require shade. A simple umbrella can be the difference between my eyebrows succeeding at their job and them being overwhelmed by the waterfall cascading down my forehead. Even with a complex tri-brolly set up at the club, with how much time we spend there on weekends, this summer we have used more sunscreen than in the past three years combined. Not only do we spend more hours in the sun than ever before, but we also sweat and swim it off at an alarming rate.

I think my obsession with being outdoors comes from being a Brit. Growing up in a country where rain can happen at any time, in any one of several formats, capable of causing various degrees of irritation and inconvenience, I am unable to see a sunny day and not go outside and embrace it. Dylan feels quite differently. Growing up in Australia where sunshine is hardly rationed and the dangers of it are well promoted, he would quite happily spend all of April and May inside our apartment, with the ACs working overtime to chill it to just above freezing. Jasper, luckily, just takes what comes and has fun regardless. And it’s a good thing too, because the weather people are saying the rains are right around the corner. 

It’ll be a relief for everyone. Especially those who have to interact with me in my current state. I'll miss these summer sunsets though.