not
sherbet or water but ORS to everyone who comes along,
indicating that they have lost every ounce of water
through all the pores of their body.
The moment I prepare my jug of
ORS, people begin to show up like vampires, begging
for a glass while staggering around miming the effects
of dehydration and virtually fainting on the floor in
front of me. Of course, I can’t refuse them the
life-giving elixir, but this means that at the end of
the day everyone in my house, down to the lizards and
insects, is remarkably well hydrated, while I still
haven’t had a single glass of ORS to drink.
The heat has a very bad effect
on everyone’s peace of mind. Very few people can
actually escape turning into fighting, snarling beasts
ready to attack on the slightest provocation. Even the
most mild-mannered grand-mother turns into Godzilla
in this kind of weather; the children cry 10 times more
often and 10 times louder than at any other time of
the year, and tempers run especially short in public
places, such as in shops and on the road.
Speaking of roads, in the West when the
temperature goes above 90 degrees Fahrenheit, the newspapers
are full of photographs of people frying eggs on the
hoods of their cars and on the asphalt. In Karachi’s
heat, you can actually cook a whole dinner for a family
of six, including barbeques, kababs, tikka, and two
naans for everyone. (Cooking it on the road is still
probably more hygienic than the food you will get in
a Karachi restaurant in the summer months.)
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