A way to define my life right now? All I can think of is hot and sticky. Not to mention the vague queasiness that has overcome me ever since I got back a couple of days ago.
So, here I sit in the warmth of my room, the fan making a lot of noise but not really doing anything else and my stomach full. Shortly, I head out to do work type things, paying an Airtel bill is foremost and then other writing stuff. I AM boring these days, there's nothing to do, nothing except to sit around and think and talk and think some more about the heat, heat, HEAT.
Glorybox by Portishead is in the background, and the melody pretty much defines how I am right now. I'm so tired. I know there are things to look forward to--parties, and future trips and boyfriends returning and moving in together, and yet, all I can think about is the queasiness and the fact that at 3.04 pm my eyelids are heavy, my stomach turgid, my mind a blank slate. All there is is heat.
Why can't the days be shorter? Why can't all the time be 3 am, when I am awake and cool? How can I shake this damn insomnia?
Does it ever feel to you like you're moving at the speed of light but when you look down at your feet you're in exactly the same place?
Delhi, even three days ago, seems like a light year away. I have friends there, and yet, and yet, in Delhi I stand still. In Bombay, things move past me fluidly. I can choose to go with the flow, I can choose to grip the arms of my chair and not be budged. I can watch the annual exodus of people leaving the city or I can participate. I am a broke, young writer. I am not so very young anymore.
My drink of choice is vodka with soda, lime juice, salt and one green chilli, sliced through, so it fizzes the soda, so it prickles up your nose, so you can't taste the vodka. It is a good drink. Specially coz you can't even taste the vodka. I smoke endless cigarettes, but in the end it all balances out because I eat salad and I get fresh air. We need to quit smoking, says JC, it's going to kill us. And I nod and smile, but I love the taste and feel of a cigarette, I love how it fits between my fingers, I love the smell mixed with perfume on my skin, I love the way it fills all gaps, I love how it lends itself to drinking, to eating, to coffee. What can be more perfect than a cup of coffee and a brand new packet of fags?
And I have decided and my "gang" has agreed--did you know I had a gang? neither did I--that our future home, JC's and mine will be the future adda also. He has a projector (which needs to be repaired) we have music, we have us, who are excellent, we are fun, we are going to be super domestic, we are going to save money. I've never had an adda house before.
Now I should go, since you've seen my internal monologue of aimlessness. I'm holding nothing back, this is a very accurate representation of the voice in my head. Along with vague guilt that despite a bombardment of ads, I have not registered to vote in Bombay and so will have no say in the future government. Even though I'm pretty sure that the party I support will win. They SHOULD win. They're the lesser of two evils.
And now I go to my bucket bath and to go meet Crocodile Dundee, for whom I am already a little bit late.