“What a piece of work is Man” wrote William Shakespeare in Hamlet, extolling the virtues of the human race. “Noble in reason”, but also asserting that “man delights me not”. He was referring to the duality of human nature: amazing altruism, high-thinking, and fortitude, co-existing with cynicism, mundane, and petty concerns. One commonplace example of the latter set of traits is our carping criticism and often unceasing unhappiness, on display through constant climate complaints, the sorrows expressed about each season.
It is well-known that summers are hot, yet one hears continuous complaints about the rising temperature. Long forgotten are the old times when one delighted in playing cricket all day during summer vacations in hot and humid Madras (now Chennai) or happily window-shopped in Connaught Place in dry and loo-enhanced Delhi heat. Now, one bemoans the heat of a searing summer whilst lounging all day in an air-conditioned home or office (or even classroom).
All through summer, while cribbing about the heat, people pine for the cooling monsoon showers. Yet, when they do begin, we complain about the humidity. In air-conditioned and humidity-controlled homes, we criticise architects for poor design, noting the lack of an appropriate space for drying clothes. These refuse, for long, to give up those last vestiges of moisture and, like unexpected guests, are reluctantly given space in core living areas (we recall, almost nostalgically, that at least summer produced bone-dry clothes). Worse, the monsoon means disruption of travel schedules, and water-logged roads even with slight rainfall. Increasingly common extreme-weather events create major floods in the cities, as routinely as yearly floods in Bihar.
As the railing regarding rains gains momentum midst melancholy monsoon mornings, followed by uncomfortable bouts of October heat, we think of winter as a saviour. Yet, even before the welcome winter, North India begins to fear the impacts of farm-stubble burning combined with Diwali fireworks. The winter of yore — a time of bracing cold accompanied by the warmth of glorious sunshine — has given way to gloomy, sunless days of pollution-filled smog. Winter is no longer about having tea outdoors on bright and pleasant afternoons, or of dressing in snug woollens for a late evening walk in a park; instead, it is about decrying the polluted, poisonous air and taking refuge indoors with air-purifiers working overtime. More complaints about the woes of winter are the core of drawing room conversations.
Come March with its cleaner air and more temperate climate, and complaints briefly diminish. Yet, they don’t quite go away: now, they are about evenings that are unseasonably cold or afternoons that are already too hot; about flowers that are not yet blooming and those that are wilting; about a spring that is too late or too brief. We get impatient for summer, hoping for even cleaner air and the promise of delicious mangoes. When it does arrive, we are back to bemoaning its furnace-like heat and blinding glare.
Irrespective of the season and the weather, we continue complaining. But maybe it’s this continuous dissatisfaction with what-is that incentivises change and propels progress? It is also what separates us from animals (some just hibernate in winter; others rest when it’s hot) and robots (who, too, never complain about the weather). So, don’t crucify complainers.
Disclaimer: The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. |
