Posted on 05/28/2015 12:13:20 PM PDT by PROCON
Full Title: It’s so hot in India right now the roads are literally melting: At least 1,400 dead in month-long heatwave
It’s so hot in India right now that the streets are literally melting.
Soaring summer temperatures in India have left more than 1,400 people dead over the past month, officials said Thursday.
Most of the 1,412 heat-related deaths so far have occurred in Andhra Pradesh and neighbouring Telangana, where temperatures have soared up to 47 C, according to government figures.
“The rains which have eluded us for the last couple of years have created serious drought conditions,” said state minister K.T. Rama Rao in Telangana, which was carved out of Andhra Pradesh as a separate state just last year.
“This is unprecedented … so there is a little bit of panic,” he said. “Hopefully the monsoon will be on time. Hopefully we will receive rain very, very soon.”
(Excerpt) Read more at news.nationalpost.com ...
The Official was explaining the life loss and extreme heat, and at last the reporter breathlessly asked if this was an unprecedented event.
The Official replied, no, it's always this hot here this time of year, but the newly elected government hasn't been paying enough attention to the infrastructure, as in the needed electricity to power air-conditioning, which much of the country has for these heat events.
The NPR reporter ended the report at that point.
Ah Ha!!
That’s a good item.
The NPR reporter’s only interest was creating a propaganda tidbit for some PC point. When that opportunity wasn’t there, the interview was pointless from her point of view, and was concluded.
This is why you’ll see guys from India wearing sweater vests in L.A. on days when its 95 degrees.
47 C = 117 F
Yow. And it isn’t a dry heat.
Curry and water will get you through it.
Half the country could die and they’d still be overcrowded and living in filth. AC won’t fix that problem. Nor is AGW to blame.
“The NPR reporter ended the report at that point.”
I’m surprised they aired it at all. Doesn’t support the narrative.
I had some German friends who visited during the months of June/July way back in the early 90s. I was stationed at Davis-Monthan AFB in Tucson, AZ, at the time. I was home on leave in Idaho, and they asked if they could travel with me to Arizona. I said sure. Two things struck them. One was the vast emptiness of the west/southwest. The second was when we were driving through Phoenix. A large sign displaying the temperature alternating between Fahrenheit and Celsius showed 112 degrees. They didn't say anything at that, but when it flashed 44.4 Celsius, their jaws dropped.
I've been in 117-degree heat before, driving over the Hoover Dam from AZ to NV. It's not fun, and the nice thing about the desert is that shade works. Not so much in humid areas.
"So, is it hot there?"
"Of course it's hot. It's India. It's always hot."
People were dying of the heat back in the days of Rudyard Kipling. The privileged classes went up into the high country during the summer.
In my first home there was no A/C and it hit very near those temps. I wore nothing but a wet towel around the house.
YOU may talk o’ gin an’ beer
When you're quartered safe out ‘ere,
An’ you're sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;
But if it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An’ you'll lick the bloomin’ boots of ‘im that's got it.
Now in Injia’s sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin’ of ‘Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them black-faced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
You limping lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippy hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!”
The uniform ‘e wore
Was nothin’ much before,
An’ rather less than ‘arf o’ that be’ind,
For a twisty piece o’ rag
An’ a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment ‘e could find.
When the sweatin’ troop-train lay
In a sidin’ through the day,
Where the ‘eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,
We shouted “Harry By!”
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped ‘im ‘cause ‘e couldn't serve us all.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
You ‘eathen, where the mischief ‘ave you been?
You put some juldee in it,
Or I'll marrow you this minute,
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”
‘E would dot an’ carry one
Till the longest day was done,
An’ ‘e didn't seem to know the use o’ fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
‘E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.
With ‘is mussick on ‘is back,
‘E would skip with our attack,
An’ watch us till the bugles made “Retire.”
An’ for all ‘is dirty ‘ide,
‘E was white, clear white, inside
When ‘e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was “Din! Din! Din!”
With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could ‘ear the front-files shout:
“Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!”
I sha’n’t forgit the night
When I dropped be’ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ‘a’ been.
I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
An’ the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
‘E lifted up my ‘ead,
An’ ‘e plugged me where I bled,
An’ ‘e guv me ‘arf-a-pint o’ water—green;
It was crawlin’ an’ it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
‘Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ‘is spleen;
‘E's chawin’ up the ground an’ ‘e’s kickin’ all around:
For Gawd’s sake, git the water, Gunga Din!”
‘E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.
‘E put me safe inside,
An’ just before ‘e died:
“I ‘ope you liked your drink,” sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet ‘im later on
In the place where ‘e is gone—
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
‘E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
Givin’ drink to pore damned souls,
An’ I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!
Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Tho’ I've belted you an’ flayed you,
By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
I’m sure if the inner thoughts of the NPR reporter were made known, it would be white Christian males to blame for it.
That’s not too unusual here in Kalifornia’s Coachella Valley....any asphalt intersecions that have signals and/or stop signs quickly get chewed up and lumpy due to the start and stop action of vehicles.
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