I’ll just listen to Bob Marley until I forget I’m a stranger to this city

29 Jul

Some days home feels like a chunk missing from my heart. Like a raw wound that refuses to heal. Like salt on a fresh wound. The melodrama of my feelings echo nothing short of the most melodramatic of soaps. My family is sitting at home, all together, chilling in front of the India England match while I’m sitting in front of my trusty 1525 all alone. Ok, not completely alone, but it sure feels like that.

Boys and Toys

So I think I’ll distract myself with boys. Here’s the back story with me and boys: they’ve never been more than toys to be occasionally admired in shop windows for me. The ones nearest to my idea of ‘dateable’ have always turned out to be socially inappropriate to date. Like forty, married, with kids socially inappropriate. (No, ofcourse they don’t know I have dirty thoughts about them 😉 )

Why are all the hot men forty? No, seriously, what’s with the generation gap?? I think it takes forty years for men to mature into my idea of emotional and intellectual appropriateness? Sigh. I guess I know when I’m finding The One-sixteen years from now.

So yes, back to the toys. Yesterday we had a meeting at the Centre, and large parts of all the batches were available to be once-overed by my eyes. The pickings were small. The eyes settled on a boi who has an interesting sartorial sense (picture a white pajama, the pajama of the pajama-panjabi, worn at ankle length and a white mini-panjabi), has the smarts and is tall. I wondered, casually, if I could fit this person in my head as a potential non-forty. I think I wondered while my eyes were on him, because my stare got caught out. I caught him looking at me while I was looking at him a couple of times more. I wondered what would happen if I stared more pointedly at men that catch my eye, and smile or make conversation with it. I think it would qualify as flirting. Back-story of me and flirting: there is none. I don’t like the idea of flirting, I think it’s superficial and too much about physical attraction. I’ve always imagined a more matter of fact way of snagging The Boi. How could any person not appreciate a rational approach to lurve? (What’s that you say?)

Perfecting the Whiplash

I have memories of a conversation with my mother about rigor mortis early on in my life. As far as memories of early youth go, my understanding of rigor mortis is fairly dramatic. Now whenever I think of whiplash, I associate it with rigor mortis.

I display excellent rigor mortis during Kolkata mornings. My phone starts to wake me up by seven every day, as I instruct it to every night. My snooze is configured for five minutes. That’s where my hands put the lash into whiplash: every four minutes fifty nine seconds my deeply asleep self anticipates the next annoying wake-up reminder and slams into the phone. Peace for the next four minutes fifty nine seconds. And I finally wake up around nine-with the alarm having sounded only once at seven. Beat that Quick Draw McGraw!

My mum maintains that it would just be easier to set the alarm for when I actually do end up quitting the bed. I disagree. How’s a sleep complete without knowing you’ve woken up early enough to have the luxury of snoozing until you can’t snooze anymore?


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