In “Fashionable Pessimism,” the author details her struggle to overcome her fashionably negative opinion of the weather in Chennai, a city in southern India. Known for its constant heat, Chennai’s climate is a frequent subject of complaints. She experiments with various strategies to cope but ultimately realizes that the change must come from within, eventually accepting the high temperatures.
It’s official: I love the sun. Despite the oppressive heat, I adore it.
The recent Michaung cyclone finally made me come to terms with the scorching heat of southern India. Every December, at least one storm brings heavy rains that causes waterlogging in Chennai, India, and devastation in the suburbs. But this cyclone wreaked havoc differently, by hovering near the coastal city and unleashing its fury for hours on end.
A few decades ago, I moved to Chennai for college and quickly adapted, embracing the popular local joke about the city’s infamously muggy weather—being either hot, hotter, or hottest. I joined in the trend of being critical of everything: myself, the weather, the food, the peculiar Indian head nod, among other things.
Accepting the heat was unfashionable, so I refrained from doing so. During the sweltering spring and stifling summer months, I never ventured outside, always hopping from the air-conditioned car to an air-conditioned building and back—for nine months of the year. As a member of the city’s elite circles, I mirrored their behavior, saying what they said, eating what they ate, dressing how they dressed, and generally following their lead.
Deep down, I never aspired to the high life. My elegantly plain yet sparsely furnished home and lack of jewelry reflected that. I wanted to endure the heat, to toughen up. I wished for a magic wand to wave it all away, sparing me the effort of cooling down with glasses of juice or cups of ice cream.
Instead, there I was, fortifying myself against Chennai’s short winter, just like the snobs. “Why don’t you wear the woolen scarf?” was a frequent question, especially during Margazhi —the misty, cool season in Tamil Nadu. Only when the chilly mist nipped through my light cotton Salwar Kameez, a traditional Indian dress, would I wrap a cashmere blanket around myself. I’d ask the same question to a friend, an exchange student from the West. Our eyes would bulge upon seeing her in a polka-dot summer frock—sleeveless. One of my Indian friends, with the traditional Margazhi expression of the Chennaites—a contended grin so complete it would make them flit and hop and wander around under the winter sun—talked endlessly during one of my overseas trips in December about how she could live in the bitter cold but could never endure the heat. I mimicked it all.
After a while, whenever the thought of toughing out the heat crossed my mind, I would brush it away, reasoning that it was for those without means who hypocritically cited “improving health” reasons. I would smirk at them and let the smirk seep into their bones, embarrassing them until they fled the scene.
Toughing out the summer heat was not fashionable. So, I would scowl fashionably, declaring, “I hate the sultry heat,” baring my teeth, as the electricity board diligently shut down power for maintenance, leaving me soaked in sweat. Like many, I would escape to the Alps or other lesser-known cool destinations abroad during the blazing summer months. (We are now compelled to seek cooler climates within the nation due to Covid and the subsequent inflation.) We would return to Chennai by December, just in time to enjoy Margazhi and the refreshing, cool brush of the dry breeze on our faces. We were handling the heat in style.
Then came the December 2015 floods. It rained non-stop, lanes were flooded, and walls were moist. The sun never shone its brilliant beams for even a moment; the outside world was perpetually gloomy and dismal. When the sun finally came out after four long days, people flocked to the terraces and danced in the streets. However, the love was short-lived. When the summer heat returned the following year and temperatures soared, I forgot all about the sun’s first rays that made us Chennaites so grateful after the floods. We were all back to escaping the searing heat. “I give up,” I told my friends as they, too, left, seeking cooler places. We were back to square one.
When my husband and I visited the Kaveri river banks last summer, the intense heat was somewhat alleviated by the strong winds. Yet, I dismissed the natural cooling because it couldn’t compete with the instant relief of an air conditioner. After a few days, we moved out, claiming that the air wasn’t cool enough, as my constant use of the air conditioner was racking up a hefty electricity bill.
At that time, I wasn’t ready to accept the climate, but last winter, something changed. Maybe I was worn down by the extreme weather. Or perhaps, with a stable middle-aged life, my reactions were sobered, making me more tolerant instead of complaining immediately. It could also be that my body has finally acclimatized; I don’t know.
Summer is currently in full swing, with an unprecedented heat wave wreaking havoc in southeast India due to climate change. I’ve been learning to tolerate the heat naturally, even without air conditioning. Defying the conventional views of the elite, I confess to eating millet porridge on early summer mornings, and I don’t consider myself a traitor to the fashionable voices of dissent. Even more controversial, we now often eat Kanji —cooked rice soaked in water overnight—early in the morning with raw onions: a massive no-no in elite circles.
With a light heart free from pretense, I can finally say: Summer is adorable.
Shobha Sriram
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