Moments
ago I had sautéed unevenly chopped onions, tomatoes and capsicum to pour over
my Sunday morning poached eggs. Sunny side up. Peeling and cutting up the
garlic stubs was the troublesome rung in the rather modest recipe. I like most
of my food with a hint of garlic, sometimes raw, sometimes slightly fried. And
I wonder, very much why they haven’t invented a garlic peeler yet. Amongst the
constellation of other kitchen appliances like hand blenders, air fryers, dough
kneaders, why not a tiny garlic peeler at the corner of the kitchen counter.
For people who love garlic in everything.
The
eggs were to be ladled with above sautéed mixture and sprinkled sparingly with a
pinch of oregano. And oh, I forgot, the whole ensemble was to be topped on top
of two lightly toasted breads, such that the essence from the eggs, the oil,
the salt and the spices, the soul of it, gradually trickled down into the
bread, just enough to make it soft and yet somewhat crunchy at the same time.
The semi raw yolk of the eggs would dangle from atop the breads and leak
downward, if it felt like. It was to be eaten, with the one dainty fork from
the kitchen cabinet. Generous lumps of it carved out and placed in the mouth,
wide open. And chomped off in between sporadic sips of black coffee.
Eggs,
had such, won’t make you hungry until late past the designated lunch time.
Designated lunch time was thirty minutes past one o’clock. I wasn’t hoping to
feel the need to eat before three o’clock in the afternoon. Egg yolks had
plenty of cholesterol to keep the walls of my stomach from releasing their
angry acids. Now that I would be at peace for a long time, I opened my laptop
to write, something, just about anything.
John
Lennon’s Stand by Me was playing full blast in my bedroom. The air of March was
hotter than February’s. The whole entire world was gearing up for the summer,
when the sun would beat down at not less than fifty degrees centigrade. I will
have to line my windows with bamboo blinds
to keep the sun out. Nevertheless, this transition between seasons was
pleasant. The heat gave sweat patches under arms, but was not as bad as
midsummer blisters from touching the window grille. Or watching your plants die
if you skipped on watering them less than thrice a day. How I had lost all my
zinnia to the epidemic of drought the previous year.
The
previous year had been the exact opposite of the current year though. Yes, very
much the antithesis. Now I am plump from being amongst no one whereas, last
year I was shrunk tiny from the ignominy of being amongst the severely
unwanted. Now I while away hours, days and weeks in cherubic inaction. Last
year I was running errands like an insane woman. Jumping into auto rickshaws,
buses and cabs, meeting strange vendors of all kinds, ticking off things off my
to do list. Now I am pampering my tongue with of all kinds of delicacies,
whereas, last year I was famished in the midst of plenitude. This year, I am
writing prose after poetry after prose. Last year, this time, I was drained. My
depression was just about too deep to fuel my writing. This year things have
taken a lethargic turn towards normalcy, and I am learning to appreciate it.
My
job was mundane as ever, but I have given up on tasking myself with it. I work
my nine hour shift at the office. And after that and before that, I shut myself
from it. Don’t answer calls or make any. I am very prudent about not spending a
minute more at work than I had to. Yes, that is another secret of my newfound
mental balance. I work without the hunger for any appreciation in return, in
kind or in cash. Merely go about my job, write mails, read mails, forward
memos, recommend approvals, rationalize rejections and quote the right clauses
from the manuals when need be. Nobody guesses there is anything wrong with me
and marks anything uncommon about me. They treat me like an average colleague.
I
eat lunch alone at my desk, that being an excuse not to engage over obligatory
formal conversation over a meal. Fill my bottle of water from the water cooler
whenever I run out of it. Stand there for however long it takes for a one liter
and half bottle to fill to the brim and look down so that I don’t have to
exchange awkward glances and nods. Pee when I have to, four or five times a
day, sit on the toilet browsing various updates on social media. I go about my
day in a very documented manner. And this has resulted in a peaceable life,
give or take, a couple of outbursts per week. Or month. Outbursts in which to
calm down I told myself that unhappiness was not a disease. It’s not a disease.
It was being specifically caused by a lot of external factors that are
catalyzing my small joys into auto destruction. I should just keep distance
from such factors. And not fall easy prey. That was all.
Tried
to keep a diary for the first few weeks, but I minimized writing my daily entry
in it day after day and ultimately stopped. After the first month I had to
throw it away along with the rest of the trash because it reminded me of
failure. I just had to do that. The peaceable life also ensued that there be
negativity around. All paraphernalia of failure be thrown out immediately. So
the diary had been thrown out along with clothes that didn’t fit anymore.
Along
with the diary and the clothes, several other items are rolled in old newspaper
and thrown out from time to time. Whenever waste disposal was needed, it was
called upon, deliberately. Though this was a new apartment I had moved into, I
had moved into it with a lot of old stuff that were not needed anymore. Because
in moments of emotional vulnerability, we retain somethings hoping that we are
preserving them only as a relic. However, those memorabilia, come back to life
soon in our closets and help implode whatever good is left of life.
After
the bountiful breakfast of eggs and bread, I checked my closet to find out if
anything in there was redundant as yet. Upon a closer look, I surmised, nothing
was. So I wrapped a scarf around my neck and went down to get two packets of
milk. To meet my random cravings for coffee all day. Even minutes after I
locked the door shut and put the key in the pockets of my trousers, John Lennon
was still audible inside the elevator. Could that be grounds for eviction, I
rumbled under my breath and walked into the street. The cement and dust from
the construction sites nearby created a chimera of bright light and endless
grey. Green and other colors were only scattered scantily on that canvas. I
walked into my regular store and showed the store keeper a V shaped two finger
insignia. He must by now understand I meant two milk packets. I screamed it
aloud nevertheless.
After
paying and collecting the change in my pockets I turned around to a slightly
familiar figure. He was at a distance. Casually leaning with his back on the
compound wall of the store, one leg folded and foot rested on the wall. Freely
releasing clouds of smoke from his mouth. He wore an expression of relief, his
eyes must have reflected freedom bordering on dementia, if I could get a closer
look. Upon seeing, he recognized me but the surprise didn’t show up aptly on
his face. He has always been the understated man, always will be.
Torn
apart between living my peaceable life of not meeting strangers from the past
life when I ran into them and being roughly courteous, I held two packets of
milk, one in each of my hands and froze
with confusion, our eyes still meeting. He gave up soon after, stamped out the
stub of his cigarette after two last longish drags and after what looked like
he was getting away, he was walking straight toward me. In that neat camouflage
of grey cement and dust, the noise of construction machines and the hails and
shouts of the dark and skinny workers, his blue shirt stood out, neatly. I
transferred the packet in my right hand to my left to free it to shake his
hand. He half smiled. I too half smiled, possibly. What else could I do.