March

The weather is not the same as it used to be. For a month or two it was cool in the mornings, enough for class to continue as scheduled and work to be done at a normal pace. Now, this is no longer. When the rains came, the sun dried us and made all that was green grow. Now it bakes. It feels as if the devil himself has turned up the thermostat. The fields where green rice shoots once proudly stood are now brown, empty, dead, gnawed upon by cows and burned black with soot. The farmers set fire to their fields now in the hopes that something will rise from the ashes during the monsoons. The fires run wild across the fields, burning smoking, stopping only for the roads made of sand. We used to have mud in those roads.

There is no escape. We are trapped inside an oven. Iced drinks, cold showers, naps in the afternoon. There is desire for movement, but movement causes sweating and we are all tired of feeling salt down our bodies. The wind that once carried a cooling breeze now licks the face and neck with its hot breath mixed with gritty dust. It is best to be avoided at all costs. How can one possibly expect to get anything done living like this? The sweet stands all crowd during the evening; the people wait for their bowls of iced gelatin and fruit shakes.

"Hot today."
"Hot everyday."
"Another glass?"
"We need more ice!"

I hate the sun. In the morning I cannot rise without it, and when it sleeps I slumber out of its influence. It is there everywhere I go, blinding, baking, brilliant. In Africa, I felt alive whenever I was out of its way. Here, there is nothing I can do without it. I ache for rain. Rain rain dark and cloudy for days at a time. The water filling up the cracked canals, the land turning green. Why did you leave us alone since October monsoon? Got stuck somewhere over the Himilayas did you?

How inconsiderate. Your arrival is greatly anticipated.