Weatherman, get me a hot June with extra roasted skin, please

I like June. Especially June in Delhi. Not especially this year. No, hang on. I don't actually like it this year. Due largely to the reason that Delhiites primarily are falling in love with June all over again with new zest, vest or whatever-est. The on-again off-again rain. The sporadic pitter-pattering, and the shade of extra green the unusual weather has lent to roads and the sides.

I don't like it because in three decades of Delhi has been (had been?) different. Bring on the heat, mate. Forty-five or thereabouts (in Celsius). 25 out of 30 days. The other five can jump around the 47-mark or so. It's then, in those five days, that I would hate the middle month of the calendar. I would have a reason to hate it. And I would love that reason, howsoever hateable.

I would love to love it for the other 25 days. For hot is what June is supposed to be.

Is there any reason to associate rain or green with June? That's the tango best left for July and August. Perhaps.

I like heat because it's the best time for people-watching. Angry, hungry, thirsty, frustrated, tired, freaked-out, sweaty, sticky, smelly. Et cetera. Try imagining a face with even half as many expressions in any other season, and I'll quit smoking. Content, happy, smiling. Blah. They are all you get otherwise. Duh. Bring on the heat, any day.