Ummmmmmmmmm!!!!!

Scratching my head all day long, revisiting nostalgia, gazing the stars, taking my mind out for a jog, listening to music, eating junk foods, chatting non-stop, staying awake till midnight, going out for a lonely walk, fixing appointment with my heart and soul, browsing through unread books, looking at a glass and calling it half-filled, trying to fall in love with every beautiful creature, watching the craziest shows on television, hunting for a partner to accompany me for a movie, cooking experimental dishes, talking to complete strangers, window shopping in the markets(not malls), strolling aimlessly, standing by the crossroad staring at people, breathing deeply, screaming at the smallest provocation, negotiating high blood pressure, scribbling on note pads, pounding the keyboard in anger, sketching on rough sheets, looking in the mirror, cuddling the pillow, rocking on the chair, biting my nails, humming songs, playing tabla on the table, laughing unnecessarily, forgiving my enemies, praying to god, looking at the watch but forgetting to see the time, rebuking myself, scratching my head once again in utter disgust, struggling hard to get out of yet another frustrating writer’s block.

My servant and his Slave!

There was a time when I was a struggler in this city. The money I received as stipend supported me to survive, but didn’t allow me the luxury of hiring a pair of helping hands. I was like a self-sufficient unit then. I used to do all my household chores myself. Although I made a shaky beginning, thanks to all the pamperings at home, I soon mastered the art of self-help. Mopping and sweeping the floors, cleaning utensils, washing dirty linens (albeit in the privacy of washroom) - I did everything single-handedly with little help from my fellow room partners. I remember how difficult it was for me. For the record, back home the only thing I used to wash myself was my handkerchief and I took almost half-an-hour to wash a single hanky. Moreover the smell of Vim Bar used to be the most horrifying smell for me. And although I swept floors occasionally, it was more out of choice than the lack of it.

The job was never easy. It used to eat over my free time. Half of my sweet Sundays were spent doing trivial things like washing shirts, trousers, socks, vests etc. I had to clean the cups before preparing the morning tea in a frosty December morning. Cleaning the room was the toughest of them all. We used to follow a rule- the early bird sweeps. But soon I discovered that none of my roommates were interested in flying back early. So poor me, I was left with no choice but to bite the dust more often than not. Never-the-less, I always found solace by thinking that one day my luck will defeat all the odds and finally I would be able to afford a domestic help. But honestly speaking, it was a different kind of experience altogether. I was happy to see myself independent in true sense. There was no one I had to depend on to take care of my To do list.

Then I got settled (although I hate this word, I don’t have a substitute for it). My salaries became handsome and offered me the extra money to spend on luxuries. And a lazy person that I’m, I employed a domestic help almost immediately to free myself from such petty jobs. Sundays were nice once again. I started waking up late only to find my washed clothes in the clothesline. I didn’t have to think twice before taking out a clean dress from my wardrobe. I was free to litter in the rooms, and utensils? Well, I started drinking water from glasses. Now, after a hectic day’s work I could afford to sit and watch my favourite TV show. The day I was looking forward to was finally here. Within no time I unlearned all those things which had become a necessity once upon a time. Sometimes I used to recollect my old days and smile. Nostalgia you know.

What a mistake it was. Today, I realise I have totally become a slave in the hands of my domestic help. He takes a day’s off and I am in a fix. Suddenly all those works which were a cakewalk started appearing monstrous to me. I can’t even think of washing a bucket of clothes anymore, I have started using disposable hankies and the sight of piling utensils send shivers down my spine. Not only that, I have to surrender to his unrealistic demands also. A sudden request for salary hike by him sounds like a threat to me. I guess he has started understanding my handicap. So he exploits me as much as he can and gets away with all his tantrums. For example, he no longer asks for a day off, he just announces- “Dada, kalke ami ashbo naa” (I won’t be coming tomorrow). I have recorded the time; he can easily make it to the Guinness Book of World Records as the fastest sweeper in the world. And I have to toss a coin to find out which shirt is washed and which one is not. So here I’m, once again a slave struggling to break my shackles. Anybody there to help me out?

The Silent Mischief-maker

How can nonliving things trouble you? Ask me- the victim of numerous such incidences. Yes, you heard it right. Although it is weird, it happens with me quite often. They torture me to the hilt and make my life hell at times when I least expect them. And this is happening since my childhood days.

It happens like this: It’s already midnight. I am getting ready to start my maths home- work – 10 trigonometry problems which, considering my low IQ, can burn the entire stock of midnight oil. I take out my exercise book with all my left over energy and get ready to start, but not yet. “Where is the pencil? I guess I put it in the pencil box before going to dinner, didn’t I?” – I ask to myself in vain, desperately searching it on the bed, under the pillow, under the bed sheet, inside my pocket, on the dining table, the book shelf and every other possible place where it can be. Ultimately after twenty minutes of combing operation I give up and sit wondering where it must have gone, reluctantly flipping through the pages of my Trigonometry Book, and here it is- the pencil, sitting pretty inside the cozy comfort of the book. “Disgusting?” I shout. But who will listen? After all it’s only a lifeless pencil. But how surprising, it is mischievous enough to waste my precious time.

If you are not satisfied with one incidence then sample this. 9.30 in the morning. As usual I have woken up late and got ready for office in a hurry. No time for breakfast. All I have managed in haste is to answer the basic urges (and that include bathing). And then when everything was going fine, I discover my socks are missing from the shoe rack. I go for another pair but fail to find any. Either they are dirty or they are distant relatives (I mean they don’t make a pair). So what can I do now? I have a meeting to attend and can’t go in slippers. I curse myself, my socks, my life, my servant and everyone who could be responsible for it and look at the clock to find that it’s already five minutes to ten. Clueless about what to do I take out the shoe polish from the back of the rack and there they lie cuddled to each other. I feel like kicking them in the back. But again, it’s useless. What would happen to them? They are lifeless.

There are several such instances. If I recollect them properly I can write a whole book on these lifeless creatures. But I guess for now two is enough to make a mockery of myself to the world.