Livinghigh
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Livinghigh was here at 4:41 PM /



Candid camera

Ever get the feeling that there's more to life than what you're doing right now? Wake up, glance at cell phone alarm, just itching to peal out, turn it off, and then go back to sleep. I don't even panic any more when I wake up 45 minutes late, even though I'm supposed to be the first one in for work, by virtue of the exasperating nearness of my house to my office. I used to grumble about that at one point of time but hell, I've even stopped that.

So I yawn again, and head for the loo, and switch on the radio before that, and step over the prostrate form of sleeping flatmate, bundled up like an Egyptian mummy's least favourite cat, take a glug of chilled water from the fridge, and head for the loo again. The music from the radio does not really filter through the walls of my tiny airplane-loo, and even if it did, it would stand no chance against the crashing, thrashing water sounds, but I guess it's psychological in some way.

Like when I come home to an empty flat, and usually switch on the radio first thing, and then I wonder whether my life is getting to be one of pathetic loneliness, but then again, I reason, how could anyone as supremely egoistic as myself turn out to be lonely in his own company?

This post almost reads like a sad entry, but I swear I'm not.

Knock next door, and tell my neighbour-cum-maid to come right in and wash the clothes. There's my laundry bundle out there, tall and mighty and soft and unpressed, and there she gets to work. She titters a bit at the mummified cat-flatmate, but she has work to do, and I have breakfast to eat. Smear mayonnaise on bread, then some jam, and clamber on the window seat, and take a bite of the mayo. There's still somebody from a bygone era singing about his achy-breaky heart, and a jhatka bhangra song follows on its heels. It's a mad, bad world, I say, and repeat the cliche to myself again, as I turn a page of the Sidney Sheldon paperback I'm reading, taking a bite from the jam now.

Finish a chapter, cock head at the new song on the radio, and recall that special someone I still have not been able to get over in some way, and clamber down from my perch. The sandwiches are gone, the mummified cat has stripped off his coccoon and gone into the loo, and my maid is sweeping the floors at the side.

I'm leaving now, I say, please do wash my clothes, and she nods and smiles, and says she will. Tell the man who irons clothes to come tonight, I remind her, and she nods her head again, saying something in Marathi that makes incomprehensible sense: yes.

I'm leaving now, the picture of domestic bliss.


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