Monsoon, so eagerly awaited by the people of Delhi to break, to give relief from the intense heat of summer, sometime brings more than is longed for.
The Sikh taxi drivers have a lean-to tent at their station nearby, they sit watching the world go or lounge on woven beds in the shade waiting for business. The head honcho, a tall, stout man with a large turban and even larger, long, grey beard, is called Uncle, the Indian term of respect for an elder. He sits out on his chair all day long, greets people he knows with a big, hearty smile, always jolly. his drivers look after their fares with diligence, always early to pick up, they will wait patiently for no extra charge until the fare is ready, driving well and carefully to the destination, then may wait for hours nearby to return their fare to home, never minding how long, very different to taxi drivers in London or almost anywhere else in the West.
Next to their taxi station the pavement was being dug up to lay piping, at a guess the workmen dug through the roots of an old tree. When a heavy, monsoon rainstorm passed over, the weight of the water and the wind brought the tree down…right on top of Uncle’s minivan-cab. Luckily nobody was inside at the time nor walking passed, nor were the taxi drivers sat underneath as they usually do. When asked whose vehicle it was, Uncle beamed a huge smile and pointed to himself, laughed and shrugged. No anger, no despair, just acceptance.
Meanwhile the roads all around are blocked by deep water with traffic at a standstill.
Even Walking is hazardous in the monsoon.