The summer in this city is so fleeting that you don’t even invest in a summer wardrobe. Much as I whined my way through summers in Delhi and other cities, drowning in my own sweat and giddy-headed with dehydration, I miss it all. It’s not that I mind the mildness of the summer here, but sometimes I find myself wishing for a real summer. The kind that makes you reach for a glass of nimbu-pani.
But on some days, London can get really hot. Those rare days, when the whole city wears shades, and thirty minutes in the sun might actually burn your skin. The sky turns a brilliant blue, save for a few puffs of clouds. Yesterday, as the temperature finally touched the late twenties, and inside the tube, people were fanning themselves, I was almost glad. Sharp sun streaming through, reflections, people dozing off, and women’s hair up in buns. There’s that familiar drowziness. And yes, that’s what I really miss. The afternoon lethargy of a real summer. And the elation that follows when you finally walk into your home, calmed by the cold, thick walls.