The interview began brilliantly. “So tell us about yourself,” asked the HR manager.

“I have a Master’s degree, an MBA, and five years of corporate experience.”

“Excellent. Any special skills?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are they?”

“While holding an umbrella, I can jump over potholes carrying all my office files, and laptop. I know exactly which railway platforms collect the least rainwater. I can identify an open manhole from thirty feet away. And if required, I can swim from my office to the bus stop.”

The HR manager stood up.

“You’re hired.”

The monsoon has once again arrived, and with it comes our annual reality show called “Guess Which Road Is Still There?”

Every year we are assured that drains have been cleaned, roads strengthened, bridges inspected and flood prevention measures completed. Every year we believe it. Then the clouds gather, the rain falls for half an hour, and most cities immediately begin auditioning for the sequel to Waterworld.

Our umbrellas have quietly become the most dependable part of city infrastructure.

Think about it.

An umbrella never promises more than it can deliver. It simply says, “I’ll try to keep you dry.” Sometimes it succeeds, sometimes your trousers still get soaked, but at least it doesn’t hold a press conference before a bridge inauguration.

Meanwhile, roads disappear beneath brown water so quickly that Google Maps should simply replace them with the words, “Best of luck.”

Most Indians have become extraordinary people.

We no longer ask, “How much rain has fallen?”

We ask, “Can my car still be seen?”

Youth who were once jobless now have enough practical experience to qualify as lifeguards. Office workers carry laptops in waterproof bags that look capable of surviving a submarine accident. Shoes are no longer bought for comfort but according to their floating ability.

Perhaps our schools should introduce a new subject called Advanced Urban Swimming.

Final examination?

Reach your school without losing your footwear. Gold medal if both shoes arrive together.

The remarkable thing is how quickly we adapt. We grumble for five minutes, roll up our trousers, hold our umbrellas like Olympic torches and march through waist deep water as though this is perfectly normal.

Visitors stare in amazement. We simply shrug. “It’s only the monsoon.”

Maybe that is not our greatest strength but our greatest weakness. We have learnt to survive almost anything, but sometimes survival should not replace asking why.

A great country should not measure progress by how many umbrellas are sold each rainy season. It should measure it by how many remain folded because people can finally move from one sheltered place to another.

Until then, dear Mumbaikar, keep your umbrella close. Not closed. It may not fix the city, but at least it still turns up for work every single day…!

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