Recap

Today I opened up my cupboard in search of something…something insignificant. And a few thousand things tumbled onto my amply dandruffed head. I figured that was as good a reason as any to resume blogging.

No, I’m not trying to be deep and metaphorical. And any allusions to Newtonian revelations (apple falls-meets skull-life altering idea happens) are unintended and purely coincidental. My cupboard is a royal mess and its contents no less subject to the laws of gravity than any odd thing.

A semester’s worth of notes. Bottles and tubes of cosmetics that Ma had so optimistically procured for me, discarded after initial short lived enthusiasm. Medicines- pills and potions untouched and well past their expiry dates. Books, oh so many books that I had ambitiously lugged all the way from home, and never ended up reading. Countless pairs of well ventilated socks (with the statutory minimum number of holes for toes to peep out of. I swear to God I don’t think I own a single pair of socks that is intact i.e. un-hole-ey). The carcass of my recently deceased CPU, newly procured blood red cane bag. Two prized pairs of jeans, well passed their prime and torn beyond any hope of salvage.

An unopened bottle of kingfisher, patiently awaiting that perfect vela evening. The iron I “borrowed” two months ago and cruelly appropriated thereafter. Possession of either, if discovered entails a hefty fine/expulsion from the hostel. Several ratty old bras, possession of which if discovered entails severe reddening of cheeks (I’d rather be caught with booze or unauthorised electrical appliances than with my hand in the “desperately in need of disposal” underwear drawer)

A frighteningly large number of pairs of shoes and enough clothes to last a reasonably frugal person two life times. In my defence, I seek recourse in the much-loved excuse of all supposedly tortured souls: I blame my mother. She bought most of it. Either that or sent subtle messages authorising unbridled sprees of conspicuous consumption.

Two years worth of memories, two years of anecdotes to add to my burgeoning Delhi diary. Two years of living, learning, losing, laughing, labouring (not much with the allegories but I’m a sucker for alliteration. Not to mention corny-ass prose)

And now it’s all lying on the floor, hours after the mishap, staring at me expectantly, waiting to be packed away in the cobwebbed recess of the almirah, behind noisy steel doors. But it’ll just have to wait. Later, later...

This is exactly the attitude that got the cupboard in its present sorry state. Exactly the signature brand of procrastination which has become my calling card. Thorn in my side… bane of my existence.

I’m so accustomed to living in a world completely steeped and drowned in “things”. So at ease with tip toeing around huge mounds of “stuff”. Crumbling under the weight of my own consumerist-cum-hoarder tendencies.

Who will ever put up with me? Accommodate me in their home and watch helplessly as the mess seeps below the door of my room into theirs. Who would ever risk moving in next door? To live and breathe in constant fear that the wasteland in the neighbourhood might reach critical mass and explode, obliterating all signs of life in a 1 mile radius.

So we’ve decided- Mona, Bob, Target the dog, the lizards and myself- to move to the nearest hitherto uninhabited island. We’ll take the pigeons too, if they promise to not annoy us any more than they already do. An entire nation to ourselves. One where we can be our unkempt and messy selves and hold our heads up with pride. Ownership of brooms and mops would be a penal offence (we’re still debating the status of narcotics and fire arms).

We’d let people visit and all… I wonder how long they’d want to stay though.

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This was supposed to be mostly about the mess in my room. But it became about a lot more things along the way. Eh…bleh.

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Inside Joke

Pooch, heartening news love. I may have lost my USB, but I seem to have located the whereabouts of my “pen-drive”.

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Radio Ga-Ga

While on the subject of this, that and the other, lets change it completely.

I love my new radio! Yes, yes I am clearly several decades behind my time. While the rest of the world is discovering the joys of ever shrinking entertainment aids I go and procure for myself a pocket radio (meant for fairly large pockets mind you), with a real live antenna and everything. I’m a slave to its pencil cell operated scratchy sounds.

Though mere mortals scoff, label me a moron (the best response I’ve received so far: “you have seen an i-pod right?”) and fail to share my enthusiasm I’m all set to label this the “Best Birthday Impulse Buy Ever” and “Perfect Quarter Life Crisis Antidote”.

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What I love most about these days is that there is absolutely nothing spectacular going on. Only mildly pleasing occurrences that require little or no effort to put together. Yes, there was the odd battle or two (“odd” being the operative word) but I’m sure just desserts are in the offing. Everything is proceeding at the pace that I am most comfortable with and in the company I most enjoy: Mine.

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I don’t really ascribe to the following, being generally of an optimistic frame of mind and having had a lovely birth-weekend (it was more than just a day). But its 4 am and I feel a nonsense rhyme coming on.

Dr. Puri’s “How the Grinch Stole Birthday”

(Sing to the tune of “Happy Birthday”)

Piece together your will
‘Cos your over the hill
You thought you’d do great things
But you’re just run of the mill

You live in a zoo
Eligible men are so few
Each looks like a monkey
And most smell like one too

Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you

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I turned 23 somewhere in between. It was a fairly ordinary day, and I loved every minute of it.