It's so hot that my metal bicycle kickstand melts into the blistering, black asphalt driveway every day, leaving it pockmarked with nickel-sized holes. My cycle's black seat also suffers under the sun, forcing me to bear the two mile trek to class alternating between standing and burning, unable to decide which is better: to speed through campus and fly over unnaturally tall speed breakers in hopes of catching a breeze or to slowly pedal over, conserving my energy and maximizing time in the occasional shady stretch of road.
It's so hot that I've more than doubled my daily water intake and drink at least one rehydration packet per week. And still, I'm continually thirsty and dry-skinned and chap-lipped. It's a never ending race between dehydration and water consumption, and water seems to escape from me through direct evaporation rather than sweat.
It's so hot that I've altered my daily schedule to include an early afternoon nap that celebrates the air conditioning units of Tagore House, while leaving me awake and functional later at night when it's cool enough to breathe and enjoy stargazing from the rooftop.
It's so hot that students laugh when you mention tea time, professors postpone class to avoid daytime power outages, and the campus dogs have become nocturnal, burying themselves beneath boulders during the heat of the day. American's have begun using Celsius so as to measure temperature in smaller numbers, Indians all wear headscarves or caps as a protective barrier against the heat, and ice cream is impossible.
107 Monday, 107 Tuesday, 103 Wednesday, 105 Tomorrow
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