Indian Summers

Scorching hot. My skin burns like fever. One could fry an egg on the tarred road, if one wanted to. And I, being a 'smart-ass', am cruising around on a two-wheeler, once again, this summer, cursing the heat, nonetheless. And then suddenly something happens, something that reminds me of why I still love the Indian Summers. And why I would choose them over the London winters anytime and even over the London summers maybe.
Its that sense of smell - the smell of dry mud, when a shower of water hits it carelessly, with a garden being watered, on a lazy Summer Sunday afternoon. Somehow, the most undermined of all five senses, this smell, the smell of wet mud, is one that lingers on, bringing with it an excitement that I somehow cannot put into words, but makes me want to linger.
It makes me want to wait for the gentlest of a breeze, to brush past that branch outside my window and cover the grey of the road with the yellow blossoms of Summer.