Livinghigh: Hey You...
Friday, June 30, 2006
Livinghigh was here at 11:48 PM /



Hey You...

My bout of joblessness ends this week. Come Monday, I'll be walking briskly into another office, dressed in stifling formals, on the dot at nine a.m, and hoping to leave work by seven p.m. The grasshopper has had his fun, and now it's time for the ant to kick back in. I hate being a schizo.

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But this time has been great. Had the major upset with having to postpone my GRE-TOEFL sked, but I got the chance to catch up with some close pals. Had an impromptu party with Scribbleamus and The Scribe earlier this week, some delicious red wine over old pictures, topped up with seafood at a chhottu Dadar restaurant.

The trend of catching up with old friends continued, with an extended sms conversation with Gyaaneshwar who seems to have fallen off the face of the earth. Had loads to talk about, mutual insecurities and hopes, job prospects and no prospects at all in some areas. Aaa, it wasn't really all that negative as I make it sound. Nor all that braniac. Just some chilling, and I remembered that time he and I went over to Pizzeria on a Saturday afternoon, got wasted on pizza and chilled beer, and then bought books from the pavements at Fort.

He hates Bombay, hates the poor life he had to live here, and he doesn't want to come back here. Anywhere but Bombay, he said, and I don't blame him. I remember all of that. I remember the Maggi noodles in lukewarm water and no stove, the tiny loo smaller than what you find in an airplane, the tiny bedroom that had no inch of space left beyond the not-so-big bed two people had to share, the forced train rides back home in the dead of night after so much revelry when walking was the last thing anyone could do, and most of all, the terribly long hours at work. Bombay makes worker bees of you, and Gyaaneshwar can't come back to that life. Even though his life would probably be much better now if he did return, than those early months, the memory of those days holds him back.

And there were those other meetings, movies, impromptu lunches with other friends. Coffees by the seafront. Rushing in the train with the rain lashing outside. Standing at the window, in my home, watching the sky turn golden, and the water rush down faster than that silly overcrowded train could ever rush forward. Got my laptop finally fixed, after ages of fretting over it.

So I'm soaking up this Friday night, late 11.30 p.m., and even though I'm sitting at home typing, and not partying the night away, I'm not fretting too much. Dancing to a catchy song sometimes, that plays on the radio. The mirror is a great companion for that.

*grin*

****

O, and yes, I've written a new story. Mellow one, about love and romance. Enter The Dancer in Paradise. One of the happiest things I've ever written, the most hopeful. And the customary excerpt:

"It's not more," chimes in friend no 2. "They come and they go. Non resident idiots are fun to screw. Screw him and get over it. Nothing more. Don't screw yourself like this now."

Reason shines through, and fights with the heartstrings. But... "He dances divinely."

"He'll dance right out of your life," comes the reply, fast as lightning, I'm not sure from which one.

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1 Comments:

hmmmmm best of luck

By Blogger sarinstyle, at 3:44 PM  

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