The other day, the power went out. Again. It was 3.12 pm on a Tuesday. I was in mid-hair mask, mid-groupchat tea scroll, mid-life, really — when suddenly, there was silence. Fan: off. Wifi: gone. Mobile data? Mysteriously non-functional, as if Airtel, too, had surrendered to the heat.
Naturally, I opened a tab devoted to finding flights. I typed “Zurich”. Not because I had a visa (I don’t), or even a plan (also no), but because it felt like the kind of place where women don’t sweat through their satin PJs or dissociate while pretending to take calls. I imagined myself in a cashmere trench, gliding past a lake, emotionally unavailable and perfectly moisturised.
Then my mother appeared — not with a glass of iced water or any sympathy, but with that calm, slightly unimpressed air, she reserves for moments like this. Looking at me sprawled on the bed, she said, “You’re not built for survival situations.” And she walked off.
So I did what any self-respecting girl would do. I picked up my oversized sunglasses, reapplied SPF 50, and marched into the living room, perched on the edge of the couch — a magazine to fan myself in one hand, disdain in the other — like a woman waiting to be rescued, or at least brought a chilled tender coconut, while preparing myself to head out.
This is a love letter from the ones who chose to stay — the ones who didn’t run off to Manali the minute May rolled around. We wanted to, of course. We dreamed about it. But we stayed — because of work, family, pride, or maybe just because we wanted to prove that we can handle it. We didn’t escape to cooler places. We didn’t hop on a flight to somewhere with a breeze. Instead, we’re here, sweating through 39°C heat in jeans, because we’re stronger than that. Or at least, we’re pretending to be.
Rituals, resistance, and the 4pm breakdown
There’s no getting around it: summer survival here is an art form. And the secret? Rituals. We turn discomfort into daily structure.
Let’s begin with the ceremonial tea/juice break — but it’s never about the tea. “It’s actually just because of the fridge in our canteen,” laughs Aparna Shankar, a bank employee. “The Frooti is an excuse to stand still and not melt for five minutes while I pretend to look for other beverages in the fridge.”
Then there’s five minutes of gazing into the abyss, pretending to ponder life’s great questions. “It’s not deep,” says Riva K, a recent graduate. “I’m not thinking about my future. I’m just waiting for a breeze and silently thinking about when this heat will start to relax a little.”
Hydration rituals are just as performative. “One of our water dispensers at college is next to a mist fan. I take water breaks just to walk past that and feel like I’m doing something,” admits Bhavin M, a university student.
And then, the most devout of them all: the floor tile nap. “The mattress is a furnace,” adds Riva. “But the coolness of the floor tiles? Heaven. Ten minutes and you’re reborn. I catch myself on the floor way too many times in the day”
“My day isn’t complete without icing my face or a cold shower at night,” admits Aparna. “After sweating my soul out all day, that’s the only thing that feels chill.”
But let’s not forget the daily betrayal of home plumbing.
“I was sweating like I’d run a marathon just walking from the auto to my gate,” says Sayonika, Aparna’s work friend. “All I wanted was a cool shower. I didn’t even touch the geyser — the tap water itself was boiling. I think I accidentally poached myself.”
But do we surrender? Never. We lie under ceiling fans like Victorian women recovering from fainting spells — with grace, and maybe a sheet mask.
Chennai’s hottest currency
Connection is everything. In this heat, we cling to each other — not physically, of course, because that would involve temperature sabotage.
School kids have their own brand of coping. “I didn’t go away this summer,” says 14-year-old Kirthika S. “But my grandparents came over. And two of my friends are still in the city. We swim in the apartment pool almost every day and it’s so fun in this heat.”
College students, meanwhile, are locked into their internship hustle. “I’m at this firm all summer,” says Krish, a second-year student. “But there’s AC and free coffee. So I was like, “I’ll take it”.”
And for working professionals, summer doesn’t offer time off — only subtle forms of rebellion. “Tea breaks, gossip rounds, standing under the office air-conditioning vent — it’s all part of the process,” says Sarvesh and Amita, finance analysts who work together.
A delicious summer defence
When all else fails, we turn to the classics: food and drink.
“Buttermilk is my emotional support beverage,” admits Pari G. “I go through four of those mini packs a day. It’s the only thing keeping me from burning.”
Then there’s elaneer — the undisputed star of Chennai summers. “It’s basically my life support,” says Ramya Trivedi, a software engineer. “Cheap, hydrating, and handed to you with a straw. What more do you want? I just wish they served it cold like dip it in ice for a while to keep it chill. It would genuinely be the best.”
Ice cream, naturally, is not a luxury — it’s a necessity. “I’ve had the same Cornetto cone three summers in a row,” laughs Sayonika. And don’t even get us started on fruit salads. “Watermelon, pineapple, papaya — it’s my afternoon survival combo,” says Pari. “The mangoes haven’t been great so far but I can’t wait for the good batch.”
Some coping methods teeter between logic and wishful thinking. “Every summer, I start lighting incense once I’m back home,” adds Ramya. “It’s part spiritual, part mosquito repellent. It helps me pretend like I’m not disintegrating and just sort of calms me down.”
Others lean into the chaos. When asked how someone copes with the heat, the loneliness, or just the existential dread of a Chennai summer, Ansh* confesses, “Last summer, I had a bit of a fling. It wasn’t serious, but it was a distraction. Plus, yeah, I did use it mostly just as an excuse to sit inside cafes and drink cold coffee with company.”
Do I look like I was built for 39°C?
Let’s be honest — no one was.
“I wore a cotton dress yesterday,” sighs Anushri, a college student. “By 3 pm, it looked like I’d fought in a war. But I’m still going to wear it. Dresses are so much better than jeans or full-sleeved shirts — at least there’s airflow.”
Clothing choices become strategic. It’s less about style, more about survival — but with flair. Linen becomes a religion. Anything sleeveless is sacred. And yet, despite the sweat patches and sun rash, we persevere.
We lie on cool tiles. We drink anything iced. We apply sunscreen like we’re prepping for battle. We survive. Because this city? It’s ours. And no matter how hot it gets, we still love it. We groan, we melt, we moisturise — but we stay.
After all, if you can survive a Chennai’s mercury spike in skinny jeans, you can survive anything. Even Mercury in retrograde.
*Name changed