Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Finding a house to live in is hard, and it's even harder when it's by remote-control. (I'm a creature who runs in circles sometimes, and so I have a tendency to repeat blog content, time and again.) Sitting and pondering over cubic metres is something I have never done before. Will there be a winding stair that embodies a gateway to independence, in case I go for a PG accomodation? Or, how do I choose the bank to rob, in order to pay the deposit amount for the flat I may eventually pick. (Might as well choose Citibank - some kind of strange glee in robbing my brother's bank)
Scenario !: hot, dusty Bombay lane, with dry sun shining down on me - smell of fish seeping up from somewhere, because (naturally) this happens to be adjacent to a fishing village somewhere in the ghettos of the city. There we have a tiny little room, on the first floor, door jamb doesn't work, tap in the bathroom gives a dirty brown liquid called water, and sunlight filtering through shattered window pane.
Kunal says petulantly: 'I told you we should have taken the hut in Dharavi!'
Wake up with a fright, too tired to dream of horror stories again.
Can imagine weekends in my boss' Bandstand apartment (sea-facing, but obviously), and throwing pebbles at SRK's Mannat next door. May even get arrested, or chased by dobermans, and I come running, bleeding, running to my humble little shack in a sad place called (of all things) Vakola, and collapse amid the tarpaulin on the floor that quadruples as carpet-bed-furniture-blanket.
That was scenario 2.
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