Chapter XV: Bienvenue '13

The Mayans never thought we could make it! But, oh boy, didn't we just! 

We're on the threshold of entering a new year. It does excite us all. Because it's a mystery. Enigma intrigues us. It is like a magician's black hat. No one is sure what would pop out of it but we all hope it's an adorably snowy rabbit or a pair of cooing doves; no one ever wishes for a dead dog to emerge.

New is always envisaging a roseate future.
It can be synonymous to new opportunities or a new direction or a novel drive towards uncharted heights or even a better set of circumstances; to each its own.
That's why we look forward to it. We eye it as a harbinger of better times. We embrace all goodness in the world. For once, we are flexible to change, the only constant.
 
Change is always good. And for the ungrateful fellas like me, entering 2013 shouldn’t mean that you forget all the goodness 2012 brought along. 2012 was great in many ways. I got myself a college degree, am in a job that’s more like quicksand – a fact I get more convinced with each passing day, I also made new friends (and forgot quite a few) and I learnt about the importance of family and their unconditional, unbridled love. 2012 also answered many of my prayers and illuminated that dim path directing towards a new chapter along my lazy life. I don’t say that I clearly view how I see myself a few years down the lane but 2012 has sure been reactionary in igniting an idea. The jigsaw is falling in place, gradually.

And I, along with all my college folks in Hyderabad, have built plans to bid 2012 an adieu. But I hope the plans for 31^st don’t go to the dogs, given my unenthusiastic nature.

The trouble:

Past my birthday, my mind is indubitably working overtime; the irony is that it’s channeling energy in things it ought not to. For example, after my flat-mate made me watch AR Rahman’s MTV Unplugged session in the office one fine day, I youtube’d the bejesus out of the videos. There’s something about Rahman’s music. His inimitable Midas touch! It just cuts through the soul. His resonating deep voice, that effortless singing oozing so much soul and the way his fingers waltzed on the piano, it's all so hair-raising. Who would ever want his songs to end?

I also happened to catch the British chanteuse Adele live at Royal Albert Hall last week, on Youtube. Her cockney accent ornate with multiple F-bombs and the candor with which she shared those anecdotes were in sharp contrast to her nostalgia-evoking lyrics, poignant singing style and that big voice.

Yes, that’s how jobless and disoriented I am. And also uninspired and tired of the frustratingly plain tone of affairs here! The ever-dampening already-lackluster inspiration has only been rekindled by my penchant for jazz music. There’s an immediate connect I feel. The sound of the saxophone, the cello in the background, accomplished voices of the yore that work with the subtle piano beat numbs my heart. I’ve celebrated a small portion of the humungous discographies of Louis Armstrong, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughn and oh boy, have I been elated! I remember returning from a tiring day and jazz's certain piece would breathe life in me. I just can’t get enough.

But I’ve had enough. I resolve to strangle the Mister Lazybones inside me. And as we welcome 2013, I wish it makes space for clarity in everybody's life. Resolve to make the right choices in the upcoming year, it'll save time you spend complaining. Leave the negativity and reasons to be with the wrong behind. Start afresh. Discover the truth. It won’t present itself, you have to get down and dirty in its quest.

The Right versus The Wrong: 
I wrote this thinking about everything I could have done right in 2012.

There’s nothing more dreadful than being in a quandary that you don’t see yourself emerging out of anytime soon. It’s an internal tug-of-war between what you clearly know is wrong and the obvious truth. There’s something very mystique about the wrong. Such magnetism, it’s hard to escape its pull. Such control, you forget about all the varied things that truly deserve a piece of your mind. And hypnotism, your heart’s set bad on it and despite all the facts being in your face, you shrug when it comes to acceptance.

Try justifying this inexplicable proclivity towards the wrong or the fun about masochism. We all cling to the wrong because we pine for that push that’ll free the hero we believe lurks inside us, don’t we all? Sadly, there is no hero and before we learn that we are down an irrecoverable spiral. Now the hurt doesn’t hurt anymore; it instead becomes a high.

Wrong steals a part of you. It conceals you from yourself. But the masquerade has to get over someday. The curtain has got to close someday. As you near the showdown, you are left aghast. The closure leaves you bruised. These are self-inflicted afflictions! There’s no more running away from acceptance.

All this while the truth was being smothered but it never let a sigh out. It just doesn’t need to. It is too familiar with the routine, perhaps. There’s no room for diffidence, it knows that it is the ultimate answer. It has battled profuse profanities and umpteen cases have thickened its skin, so it knows too well that even after all the slipshod behavior, we all are bound to it like tethered lambs. Its exemplary tolerance is insurmountable; all it demands is its own sweet time. As soon as the clouds of confusion dissolve, you feel something you never have. As if you now own that ever-elusive kudo. It’s just a matter of enlightenment, of clarity.

Find that clarity to relish in the things worth sticking to. Make your life merrier. As 2012‘s pushing 2013 every passing second, all I hope for it to bring is force and positivity to enable us all to realize fresher aspirations. I hope it brings me wisdom to know right from wrong. I want it to bring us our long overdue torrents of joy.

Happy New Year, y'all. Spread smiles.

Chapter XIV: Darling December

As I drifted elsewhere listening to the 1954 collaborative effort of the dulcet Ella Fitzgerald and the ultra-gravelly Louis Armstrong on the prosaically named 'Ella & Louis', I heard two loud bangs on my door. It was a no-brainer that the day had changed. It’s the day when love from family and close friends would overwhelm me and I would miss those who couldn’t be by my side. It was the day I would get flooded with congratulatory messages from well-wishers and from others who are reminded of me from their Facebook news feed, and many who despite the reminder keep themselves from wishing me and get their pretty names engraved on my Wish-A-Rabid-Dog-Tears-You-Apart List forever. Yes, December 13th is here.
 

I opened the door to find two masked girls and both of my flat-mates donning preposterous conical Ben-Ten caps and blowing jolly party horns. I wasn’t entirely taken aback, for I had heard some noises a few minutes ago but had decided to keep my lips pursed about it. So I tried to play along and act surprised.

Now what many don’t know is that besides being a bumbling bastard, I also am quite inept at reacting to situations like the one I was facing then. Oh, I did feel special. I swear! But the reaction I could muster up with all my might was as dull as Art Cinema. It was a mix between 'Looking Stoked Enough to not let my friends down' and 'Oh well, what's fucking surprising about surprising someone on their birthday?'

So feigning superfluous excitement, I had them take me downstairs where there was an already lit scrumptious-looking chocolate truffle cake waiting for me to come and blow its candles out. I had turned twenty two. At least that is what the candles said.

Amidst answering phone call from my parents who happened to wish me at midnight for the first time ever, I made a merciless incision. A customary out-of-tune “Happy Birthday” followed. Now with the cut cake, the four souls knew too well how I detest smearing it anywhere and that the only befitting place for it was through our food-pipes. So I robbed them of the dimmest chance of any fun they'd have been expecting. As a result, we only stuck to eating it and getting meaningless pictures clicked something that would later be dubbed as “Memories” and as “Lousy” with the passage of more time.

Soon everybody dispersed and I climbed up waiting for those precious winks of sleep, depressed. That's my problem! Somebody else my age would be ecstatic, surrounded by scantily clad girls in a discotheque, dancing like the world would end tomorrow and buying rounds of vodka, tequila or gulping Southern Comforts but there I was in my bed that now creaked every time I turned, all depressed! It's a disgrace, isn't it? But that's not why I was sad. I have never been that kind. That was never my idea of fun. But yes, I was sad on the night of my birthday. Wish I had known why. I gave in with a hope that sleep might cure it.

And it did. The morning was unusual, given Hyderabad standards at least. It was a very foggy morning with bad visibility, a fact that immediately transported me to my earlier birthdays in Punjab. That is how it had always been, the sweet taste of reminiscences! After a quick shivery shower, I left for the campus. As I walked in, I witnessed that my wing was pretty much deserted and from afar I could see my cubicle decorated with a giant Happy Birthday poster of Disney characters and birthday notes from friends, all that done very thoughtfully. As I pulled my red chair to sit while reading tiny wishes scribbled on paper stick-ons, I saw two boxes of chocolates seated on it. Elated I thought, “You got yourself two weeks of migraine, Rishi.” And out of emotion then I hugged the girls for whatever they'd done to make me feel special. They had succeeded.

The remnant of my time at office was about giving everyone a hunk of last night's cake, getting even more awkward photographs clicked all with me in the center and a Flipkart delivery along with a beautiful message from a very special friend from Punjab. After office hours died out, on consensus we packed ourselves in an auto-rickshaw to go have pizzas. It wasn't the most comfortable ride but we'd do that for pizzas because pizzas were good as gold for us Pocharam dwellers. Even something so trivial seems like a luxury, it's only a matter of time and circumstances.

The day ended with a few more phone calls. What I needed that day, besides an urgent haircut, was to spend some quiet time with myself. I had lost myself somewhere in the middle of the surprises, reactions, phone calls or going out and taking the mickey out of everyone. I longed for a tiny internal dialogue with myself to be grateful, to thank lord for the things I value. I am a little spiritual, after all. And so goddamn single. [I hope somebody hot is reading this!]

Turning 22 was nothing different from turning 21 except for once in half a dozen years, I was not preparing for an exam. Instead I watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II on the evening of 12th. There I lay in the quilt with lights out, clapping like a teenager at moments when McGonagall asks Fitch to steer the Slytherins to the dungeons or when Mrs. Wealsey goes "Not my daughter, you bitch!" on Bellatrix before taking her life or when Harry frees himself of Hagrid's huge arms while pretending to be dead all the time. There I exclaimed like an overjoyed creepy kid, "In your face, baldy Voldy!"

Birthday Resolutions:

We all become what we once hated, don’t we? The cobwebs of the once-despicable indiscipline have got me all entangled, clearly. I’ve allowed myself to bask in much levity ever since I’ve been back from Punjab. I need to shirk it off me. I wish I had someone gift me a cure for procrastination on my birthday. Alas!

Now that I feel finally past my giddy youth, there's one last thing I need to work on a little: Acting less socially awkward and learning the art to leave a positive impact when meeting people, especially at parties. There are just two things at a family party I fear more than death: insanely loud music and old inebriated uncles! And Punjabi weddings present a lethal combination of both, much to my chagrin! No wonder I was labeled as 'The Shy Guy' when I attended a wedding function back home last month. Some freaks apparently can't digest a young boy sitting and enjoying his snacks. After you obey them with a crinkled nose and a silent curse laced with spite, you can see them gloating behind their umpteenth glass of alcohol as if they've won some mysterious battle.
 
To have everyone looking at me, now that's the sort of attention I can't handle. I get more awkward than when watching Sunny Leone’s condom advertisements on television with parents. Either way, I either turn red as a plum or crack uncomfortable jokes about myself or someone I haven't settled scores with whenever in the limelight. I remember blushing more than a girl who's been upskirted, when in Grade 12 [2008] I had everyone singing a cacophonous ‘Happy Birthday To You’ in the English lecture. That also pretty much answers why I look like a crack addict in all my pictures with a larger group. Physically there, otherwise in Faraway-land.

Perhaps now that I’m going on 23, my rueful self should stop loathing itself. I don’t see it happening anytime soon though. I regret not having a good book to give me company, for example. It’s not as much as a matter of finding time out as it is about shunning my slothful new ways.

I also crib a little because all of my friends are in very mature relationships. But as much as I am apathetic about whatever little they have got to share about their love lives, I hear echoes in the empty spaces of my mind shrieking whether I will ever find what they claim to already have. I notice a silent longing for security and mutual promise for longevity have taken center-place and have replaced all the juvenile stuff rife during college years. You filthy seeds of maturity, burn in hell for snatching my friends away! I fear what if I don’t find anybody? Would it be as harrowing as the falsely prophesied end of the world by the Mayans? I guess not. I have a lot on my platter to get sorted with before taking that plunge in the rosy valley of lovelorn martyrs. Say, my career.

All I thrive for is to find myself first. Everything else must wait. I know that sometimes it hurts like it hurt worldwide Cricket fans after Sachin’s announced his retirement but I allay myself by thinking what any mushy novel would profess, “It isn’t something you go looking out for. It just happens.” Same goes for happiness. I wish it finds its way back.

For now, I put a lid on all the worries thinking that it’s only a matter of time. Time is that unconquerable force. Hoping that it keeps me amongst its favourites, I step in on the 23^rd year of my life with confidence and a vision of the yet-unrealized dreams.

Chapter XIII: The Day I Flew Back Home For Diwali

With the Navratas culminating in the immense pleasure derived from conflagration of Ravana along with his diabolical brothers, the festivities have only begun. Diwali is less than a dozen days away. The paeans no longer fill the air like they once must have when Lord Rama returned from his exile, and the earthen lamps have replaced blinding lights and deafening fireworks, we still celebrate it grander every year welcoming the virtues Lord Rama exemplifies. The Ravana inside us takes a day off and we revel in what is the country’s most favorite festival.

It’s that time of the year again when families unite. Those stacked delicacies make those prying eyes crossing the sweets-shop fall in a diabetic coma and set those tongues wagging. Nothing intrigues kids more than crackers and unwrapping gifts that fill up the entire living room. All colleges run empty for everyone is cajoling their professors into cancelling lectures. The hardcore non-vegetarians go through meat-detox. Even the most hen-pecking wives pray for their husbands’ longevity, thank the ludicrous practice of Karva Chauth. Proclivity for neatness exponentially increases to welcome Goddess Luxmi in our cribs. Yes, it’s that time again that deserves a much-needed break from pell-mell of the busy lives we’ve lost our true selves in. A break for which I concocted a colorful story to convince my manager to grant me leave, oh what utterly laughable excuses! Yes, I lie for love. Love is my Achilles heel, and I’m sure that one fine day it'll absolve all the sins I live in.

Flashback: November 2

Sleep plays games with me whenever I have to travel. It evades me, I then end up checking my phone every twenty minutes and wonder why time never understands my state. It would crawl when I want it to gallop like a stallion and would run faster than an incontinent passenger stranded on a railway station looking for a lavatory when all I want is for it to be smooth like Michael's moon-walk. I gave up on counting sheep at 3AM and saw my flat-mate occupied packing his stuff. They leave by train a little later than I do. I go up to say Hi and I sniff some pleasure in his tone when he asked me about my flight's status. It had been raining cats and dogs.

Missing a call from the cab driver an hour before he was supposed to report didn't quite throw me in a panic fit. His not answering my call six times when I am only thirty minutes from leaving the village for Rajeev Gandhi Airport did. I thanked my photographic memory for having remembered the contact details of this other cab-service I caught a glimpse of the other day! Made a call and had luck waving its wand in my favour. One cab was available in thirty minutes. I chose for it. What option did I have at 3:30AM anyway?
 
The cab arrived and I said goodbye to my flat-mate with an awkward hug saying stuff that people usually say when they know they will never meet again. Mercy! Being socially awkward is one bitter sting in my crown of thorns. Anyway, crooning Winehouse's 'You Know I'm No Good', I hurried to the elevator and hopped in the cab. It was still raining heavy and the highway to Uppal did not have any streetlights. Well that's Pocharam for you! I stayed on the edge of my seat that reeked of damp unfresh socks until Uppal, after which I found it safe to take my eyes off the road and plant them on my phone. And it rang! The other cab driver was now calling me and I really felt bad for that bloke. Usually I am the sole victim of my panic attacks and myopic indecisive disposition! This time a classic case of bad synchronization had taken its toll on him. I felt sorry. So taking off amidst torrential rainfall and dark clouds was the least of my worries. I felt like witnessing that Quidditch match sitting by my window seat where a Dementor plants a kiss on Harry as water trickled down my window making indecipherable patterns. The flight, to my relief, was on time.

The delicious meal I was served also blew life in my listless self. The mint leaf resting atop the fruit salad, the scrumptious omelette-foldover served with a rich flavored curry and a corn-potato stuffed fried side-on, the lilliputian bun that I adorned with butter and strawberry jam and a much-needed cup of tea. The meal stole the few winks of sleep I was left with and the little difficulty my eyes had in staying open was instantly eradicated. And I lay all awake and gay. It is the 2nd of November, and I'm on my flight back to my hometown. The feeling was sinking in. Buds of excitement were blossoming one more time.

We descended 34,000 feet to Delhi cutting through the dense clouds that now resembled a colossal cotton candy, and the reminisces of the mild association I’ve had with the city flooded my mind. I hurried towards the gate from where my flight to Chandigarh(IXC) had to depart. Now as I find myself 45 minutes away from home, my flat-mates' state crosses my mind. A train from Secunderabad to Delhi is not as rosy as they made it sound. An hour to the railway station, 23 by train to Delhi and at least 6 to their respective hometowns.

 
At T3 while I waited at Gate 28B, in front of me was an old couple made up of a sad, sickly and nagging wife and his balding man wearing trousers so loose that it could perhaps clothe an entire fleet of Bollywood Item-song backup dancers altogether. The lady's expression was as cold and contemptuous as is Bellatrix Lestrange’s on a killing spree. She maintained it while she kept playing Temple Run on her Apple device. The minute the husband asked for his turn, her answer brimming with spite was ''Let me finish first.'' Then she disappeared, just like her husband's fleeting smile, towards the washroom and didn't return till I was there. And I realized that I have been kept away too long from experiencing the charm of being with someone you can probably crib and complain about forever! Ah, married couples, old or not, make such a sweet journey-free-time fillers.
 
Beside me was another couple in their prime. Their newborn was being taken care of. I was eschewing the ongoings because I know it could have led me to barfing. Why? Because nothing is pleasing about eating out of your kid's jar of 'something that looks disgusting' or baby-talking with him and making yourself look like morons in a lounge crowded with people so full of themselves. I almost thought, "I have had it. No more observations that can drive you crazy, Rishi." But at the final check-in, I see this preened and primped crew-member seated at her desk, a treat for the eyes. You know how we've all met a good-looking girl whose atrocious English makes you forget how good-looking she really is. The second she spoke 'Ladies with childrens come ahead in the queue', the Grammar Nazi inside stirred a storm bigger than Cyclone Nilam that was currently hovering over Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh.

And I boarded the plane full of old Sari-clad air-hostesses welcoming me with Namaste and tired smiles. On my short flight to Chandigarh, I had Ice Age 3 to give me company. This is how I spent my least boring 45 minutes of the day. When I landed, I had my father waiting for me. What I'd never forget is that phone call he made around two weeks ago when he told me in the most Karan-Johar-directed-way ever to "Jaldi Aaja Bas". It made me realize the soft interior that resides underneath his stern look and that expletive-filled tongue. And there we were meeting after four months that seemed more like eight centuries and as I hugged him I felt this heaviness in my head. I knew what was to come, we'd soon be here at the airport together again but only parting for an undefined period of time. You know what they say about "good things", they don't last forever. I returned from Pocharam as a blank page that only family time could draw a smile on. Love indeed is my Achilles heel.

Chapter XII: My Hyderabad Tale

The flight of freedom

Roughly 1800 kilometers away, what dawned on me was a sense of newness. A new city, new faces, a new language (read lofty barrier), new type of food, new job (insert laughter) and a new campus (insert laughter multiple decibels higher). I was soaked in this novelty, but this newness was as ephemeral as joys of childhood. What my myopic-self had failed to realize was how a self-proclaimed non-conformist always wanting to stay independent and take charge had grown so homesick. Believe me you, there was nothing, yes nothing, newer than THIS sinking feeling.

You know how some people eloquently express the high they feel living in the heart of the city! Pocharam Village is where I have to spend at least two years now and following suit, it perhaps lies somewhere around the genitals of Hyderabad. A place it takes two hours of ordeal to reach from the main city; two hours that include changing at least 3 buses or auto-rickshaws (can be more if you are new and clueless). The strongest argument to content my weary heart for finding an abode here is that my office is a 10 minute walk. Less pollution is another bonus, allows my eyes to absorb the greenery from my 8th floor room window.

Talking about room, finding a decent house without having a tiny heart attack each time after hearing the rent was a big deal. Somehow we managed to get a fully furnished spacious duplex at a moderate price on Day 1 itself. Now realizing how expensive apartments in the 'heart' of Hyderabad are, I am happier.

Settling-in included haggling with shopkeepers and housemaids like sickening skinflints. It made me realize how easy life was, how facile it was made by parents and how I'll now have to stand tall against it all. Thankfully, I have my first-cousin living in the city too, so the first weekend was delightful, a far cry from what the impending days were going to bring about. But it takes only one hundred and twenty minutes to reach him, a feat that seems never-ending when your only Apple earphones have been wrecked by your flat-mate a night before you leave for your cousin's. Shed a tear here!

The city feels alive. Uncountable vehicles plying on the road, smoke up in the air and deafening horns only worsening my migraine. It all a sharp contrast to the calmness of my village. Eating outlets are what my village is devoid of and as I crossed every Subway or KFC, I re-ran in my mind the ‘Serenity Prayer’. I was dodging the thoughts of tonsuring the chap who christened our township “Singapore Township”. There's nobody who even delivers anything here. All we have are two below-mediocre canteens that are minting money off the crowd's sad situation. 

Hussainsagar Lake

Other tiny observations: 
a) The much vaunted Hyderabad Biryani (from Paradise) didn't quite please my taste buds. I prefer my mother’s Pulaav anyday. 
b) After loitering at the super-busy Uppal Crossroads like lost lambs, when we finally hopped in the APSTRC bus I saw a female conductor equally gruff as the ones I remember from PRTC. Oh I had a vision of the agility with which I would catch PRTC buses to college every morning without fail. 
c) And once I found myself in an auto whose driver was hell bent on spreading Islam (he asked me to do Namaaz five times and find all the answers to Life in The Quran), who was convinced with Osama's contrivance for blowing up WTC. His logic was as inane as Bipasha's necromancy attempts in the ludicrous Raaz3. All I remember doing (as told) was not to disagree to anything he had got to say until the ride is over! To never cut hair off my chin, to never wear gold and to not revere Churches and Temples- I acceded to everything.


On the job front, our anchor's dumbfounded-look on seeing a good 200 of us crowding the tiny hall he summoned us all in for induction gave away how deep in hot water we were, on the first day itself! Can you blame him? The campus is as big as a rodent's burrow that only has five already jam-packed buildings with no more space to accommodate! I begin to appreciate the infrastructure the Mysore DC had, that being the only thing I miss about that place honestly!

Being on bench and knowing that each passing day is adding a giant naught to your work experience never begins to get daunting. Not for one moment! Because 1) the hope for work to magically crop up remains alive even after your corpulent manager has shaken all the responsibility off his shoulder in a speech filled with candor 2) the bliss you feel on the payday when you know your brain's fluids have not been churned at all.
I know the ups and do realize the downs. I’m losing out on the real work experience. I know, give it a rest! To forget about the downs, I extracted the most advantage out of Gandhi Jayanti. A short trip to Mumbai refilled the energy that had drained out in the first month I spent in the village. Only a 12 hour bus ride to the closest heaven to unwind me. The urge to have home-cooked food was assuaged by my sister's delicacies. My wish to catch Barfi! again with the kids was also granted. Barfi was just as fun as it was the first time with friends. Priyanka's act is unassailable. She brightened up the screen each time. She just stole the show, so much so that we were in fits of mirth trying to enact the “Susu” scene more than once in an over-crowded mall.

Barfi!'s charm makes you fall in love, its subtlety allures you, its exuberance imbues you with reminiscences, it just swallows you whole. It's impossible for it to not unsettle someone, for its music to not cause unrest. I wonder how some music can be so ruthless. And why do some songs first enlivening the clinical heart with feelings then maim it so bad? What pleasure to leave someone like fish out of water?
This heart that had assuaged itself by calling it all a wicked scheme of destiny, had taken being ridiculed for its marred state in its stride and had forcibly forged a seal of completion on those incomplete distanced stories awakes to rekindle that flame. Such is a good composition's power. There's no way you can not let your heart talk in its own way to that song. So much it can bring about, who would have thought?
The only thing I disliked was how Barfi! was so eulogized until it was sent for Oscars. The janus-faced janta forgets the sweetness Barfi! had infused in the hearts of a crowd used to monstrosities like Housefull2 and Joker!

Solitude is a gift, loneliness a curse. I revel in my solitude, I play with words, they assist me in concocting another world, they act transcendental camouflaging me from negativities. I sometimes am a maudlin writer; other times a mean opinionated middle-finger. But I find an inexplicable pleasure in vomiting out words, untrammeled thoughts, my hybrid reflections! I feel like giving it my all, body and soul. My flat-mates seem to understand my forlorn ways well. They do say some exceptionally funny things sometimes and cook amazing food. They sometimes say things that just engulfs me in hilarity. They are extremely fun loving.

They are really nice blokes barring some habits that throw me in fits of petulance! I blame myself. For I've never lived in a hostel so I'm a noob at learning the disgusting ways boys usually live in. Turning a blind eye to cleanliness perhaps is a trait too macho nowadays. The messier, the merrier seems to be the new mantra.
It's not the fickleness that controls his attempts to be a teetotaler, or his locking horns with the maid when she does as good a job as Kim Kardashian does in containing her curves in skimpy dresses. It's not the other's indecisiveness about the course of career, his being so naked to influence, or being so very derivative and a bigtime pervert. Because anyone can put up with that!  What I can't stomach is the pride with which some men disrespect the opposite sex. I ascribe its cause to their lack of female siblings or female friends. But often they get too deep in the vortex to change that or befriend someone! I wonder why they do it; it hardly makes them any cooler or any more virile. But there's not always an answer to something so ingrained in one's psyche. It's like love- blind, mindless and hard to phase out.

I may learn well to vegetate in the village someday, but the yen to fly back home with every phone call I make pulls me stronger. The very thought of them and violins begin to play! Each morning I sink deeper in my rotten futon missing that warmth. But it's worth the wait. My transports of joy are long overdue, and won't be snatched away. Soon all that has kept me from them will get lost somewhere and I'll witness those aging smiles again, that sparkle I bring in those tired eyes will twinkle again. Then all my trifling brooding will cease, my worries will evaporate, those clouds of feeling homesick will dissolve by just that one warm embrace that they'll extend as they welcome me home this Diwali.
PS:  Crooning 'Fly me to the moon' envisioning the wee hours of November 2 that will transport me to heaven.