I'm back home as it were. Fond homecoming prevailed as the mother made pancakes and such. The father just behaved in a father like fashion. Enough said.
So the feeling isn't exactly of jubilation. Sort of "whatthefuckhaveidone"...
Yeah... I'm supposed to be thrilled and whatnot. Homo sweet Homo. But I suddenly begin to crave the lack of human beings. It takes a bit of getting used to. Suddenly there are shoulders to rub with, there are people to bump into on the footpath. The yuppies have crawled out of the wood work along with the slick marble looking laptops. The air begins to smell of condescension. Yeech...!
I miss the kanada songs that were played in the auto when I went to work. I miss paying 12 bucks "akka minnnimum fayr akka." Back there in MySore, life went at a slower pace. I got dragged into this gig whining and puking, now, I miss the fucker.
I miss that dilapidated old fart of a building I used to stay at. Eva and I successfully managed to scare away a bunch of wankers Od-ing on gogonut oyil and tamil/malayalam/hindi/kanada tele seriels. While night after night they sat and plotted their misirable lives after their favorite actress in the seriels ... Heroin it seems.. Eva and I used to sit in our dingy little room and smoke and bitch and then smoke and bitch some more. Occasionally when I felt dehydrated I would open the door to get some water, and lo and behold a cloud of smoke engulfed me. I doubt that those jasmine wearing turdies ever saw my pretty face, it being covered in smoke most of the time, beside the tear rimmed eyes ( courtesy the serials) didn't provide adequate visual aid as well. But I loved the dramatic pause that took place. Suddenly everything was in slow motion. I fancy a 'requiem for a dream' type music being played in the background. While the lil lamb chops gaped at me and then at the smoke filled gas chamber that I just stepped out of, I grab the much cursed bisileri bottle, which I suspect is filled with water from the loo. Ah, fuck cares, we going to die anyhoo.
But back home I have clean water to drink. Gone are the days when I used to put the glass to my lips and wonder will I live after the first gulp?! Gone are the days when at 3 am if I couldn't find sleep, I'd go looking for it on my terrace. I usually found it on the outline of the Chamundi Hill, slowly it made its way towards me. Vast open spaces sung ancient lullabies to me. Before you know it, I'm lying on the terrace like a some celestial beached whale. Knocked out.
For those of you who know me, you'd probably think that I used to hate it there. "Used" being the operative verb in simple past tense. Funny what we can get used to. Isolation being one of them. A simple freedom that comes with isolation. Not so much there is no one to talk to, but the simple joy that you are not accountable to anyone. No toes to step on, no promises to keep and no miles to go before I sleep.
Well, I'm back now...almost...
