It is the 26th of January, 2011. He is at his bachelor pad relishing a morning of calm. It is a holiday, the nation’s Republic Day, and thus there is no hurry to get up early and get ready for the office. Like a rare Sunday morning when he has nothing to do and no one to meet. He loves this solitude.
But this will not last for long. In a few hours from now, the girl he loves and a few close friends will come over to celebrate his birthday which was two days ago. 31 years! He is thirty one years old now! The feeling is still to sink in though. He wanted to write how he’s feeling for the past two days. But he couldn’t. Maybe because he doesn’t know what to write.
And he is writing this with a new gold and silver ball point pen in a new notebook made of handmade sheets of paper. Both of them being his birthday gifts. Also, this morning he started reading Damon Galgut’s ‘In a strange room.’ This book was also a (belated) gift for his last birthday.
He is enjoying the book. It is written in short, clear but somewhat broken sentences. And there are lots of pauses in between. This is exactly like how he likes to talk. To talk less and, to think more. By the way, these pauses of his are legendary by now. (And he takes a pause at the use of the word ‘legendary’. He realizes that it has crept into his vocabulary due to Barney Stinson and the amazing proclivity of youth to use superlatives. Youth?) This was an example of the way he talks with lengthy pauses in-between. And that’s why he is liking the book.
The maid comes. After doing her chores, cleaning the floor, the balcony and the bathrooms, she is out quickly. He thinks that labor class doesn’t get any holidays. What is the meaning of the Republic Day holiday for a maid working in a middle class locality? Last night, when coming back from the office, he saw a guard’s cabin outside the swanky and huge DTC millennium park depot. Rows and rows of big green and red buses locked inside the gates while outside in a tiny cabin, a solitary guard sat under the light of a single yellow bulb. He wonders who was guarding whom.
Anyways, he has to start getting ready now. In a few hours, the people he loves will start showing up. He has to get his room in some sort of order, have a bath and preferably something to eat as well. Oh, she is calling him now and he’ll talk to her, enjoying the prospect of meeting her today.
Maybe today he’ll get a sense of a year gone by, of another new diary, written by a new pen. Maybe he’ll write well this year.
Born in New Delhi, India in 1980 and is a retired pessimist (still) living in New Delhi. He has Haryanvi ancestors, a Punjabi girlfriend, friends all over the world, two (or more) yet to be born children, (many) memories of (many) pet dogs and no cats ever. He holds an honours degree in English Literature from the University of Delhi and creates advertisements for paying the bills. His interests are universal, and include: living, eating, sleeping and when not sleeping, daydreaming. Other abiding interests include reading, writing, street photography, newspaper editorials, watching the moon and planning trekking trips that never materialize.
10 Responses to "Another year of life begins"