by Jeanne Eck

"Monsoon madness" is about the delight Indians feel when the rains begin. It delivers enough relief from unbearable heat and humidity that one stops feeling as if they're gasping for relief with every step. Stores offer madness sales, restaurants special menus. There's even a "Monsoon Madness" coffee.

After a rain, small herds of sacred cows congregate in the middle of the street where it is higher and drier. They don't like to be wet. Water buffalo don't care. Stray dogs dry off on park benches. Despite the mud and weird diseases that are most prevalent from water-borne diseases you've probably never heard of, every human being who is able to ride out the storm in their "no matter how humble" version of home, escapes from captivity, grateful to be out and about whenever they can. To prevent the spread of disease it is important to keep one's body and feet dry, yet one sees few Indians with umbrellas and nearly none with boots or rain gear.

Other than two major storms, it has been a mild monsoon season. We're in the midst of number three. It rained all day yesterday. The winds caused trees and wires of no discernable value to gyrate riotously while pelting raindrops the size of Hummer's into crevices that suddenly announce their presence in the form of wall showers with more water pressure than the ones we bathe in each morning. My kindness in leaving behind extra towels I thought I no longer needed with our Bawwab's in Cairo, bordered on insanity. Normal laundry takes a back seat to mops and rags--if the electricity is on. Pustules of plaster continue to inflate with each heavy rain. Nothing can be repaired until October when it is dry again. Air conditioners repel treacherous daytime mosquitoes and slow the growth of acrid mold and mildew, yet they're just as likely to add to the dampness since repair people are notoriously frugal when called to add more"gas" to condensers to prevent them from dripping-again!

We're lucky. From our 7th floor flat, we're able to watch monsoon inspired rivers flow from the crest of the hill where we live downward to flood the streets below us. Mumbai is a series of small islands. Some are linked by landfill, others by bridges. The limited infrastructure of sewer and drainage is grossly inadequate to carry the tide back to the sea. It often becomes clogged with errant plastic bags, garbage, the remnants of homes, and the all consuming feces deposited by anything that can sneeze.

There is no fresh water supply in Mumbai. It is brought in by tanker trucks that leak half their contents before reaching their destination. At stop lights, another percentage is stolen by slum residents who are adapt at opening the tanks. In milliseconds, they are able to drink greedily or quickly fill whatever container is available before the truck moves on.