C’est ma vie…vraiment?

It is not as if I don't feel like working. I just wish that the deal was easier. The sun should be mellow until I get to office and there must be something very cucumbery to get me fresh during the afternoon slump. Maybe a spurt of chilled ice water, a slug of something sweet, tart, and cold served with a wedge of lime, a healthy nuts and fruit salad with pineapple and strawberry slivers, an ice lolly, a backrub, a yoghurt face pack, a quick snappy game of table-tennis. Something like that.

I like the discussions I have at work. They are intelligent, if not very articulate. Several times, most of us just lose the will to make our point. But we get by. There is such a thing as common consciousness, I suppose. People don’t really think very differently from one another.

Then there is the rigidity of a workplace. That is the straw that makes me feel like a camel. So many lines, such few toes. While I have never had a problem with discipline before, this one time I am finding it unpleasant.

Something inside me resists getting into work on time. Something inside me wants to write in long-hand in the middle of a meeting. Something inside me wants to paint a wicker chair on a hill-top while I am typing emails to clients. Something inside me tells me that it does not want to swim against the tide anymore, so I must get out of the water.

I am quite happy actually. I have a little bit of time to make my own precious moments of comfort. If I am careful, I get enough to profile my perfect day.

Like a tenuous workout in the morning. A walk home watching a raw sienna sky turn indigo. Lounging around at a friend’s place making plans for the weekend, watching TV, dipping into all her books and not borrowing any of them.

A quick stop at the grocery store and buying an astonishingly good jar of garlic and anchovy paste to be had with fried eggs and potatoes.

Making a simple, quiet meal – chicken broth and rice, having it while reading a pacy bestseller.

Lying down in the hot room letting the fan cool me down, slowly, until I start feeling drowsy.

I dream a wholesome, complete dream in color. They involve my childhood, quietly making sandalwood paste in my grandfather’s cool library in Delhi. Or my early teenage years, walking to Carter Road in the first rain of the season. Tiptoeing around puddles under canopies of wet, flaming orange flowers on Pali Hill..suddenly reaching the promenade and watching the sea roar and hum. In my dreams, the rain is strong yet kind. The clouds churn and the wind is wet and sloppy, like an enthusiastic kiss.

I dream and I feel that heady, hearty excitement of getting wet in the rain. It is so real. My head tilts on the pillow, I smile and curl up.

Later, I wake up awashed in a cheery pool of light. I’m still cuddled with that merry anticipation of last night’s downpour.

The day is full of little concessions. The favorite pair of underwear that I had thought had gone for washing is wrapped neatly and tucked away in the cupboard. There is loose change under the breadbox – twenty-three rupees – just right for my auto fare. A sudden SMS from a distracted boyfriend, ‘I love you again’. The beckoning last 30 pages of the book that I am reading. A smooth rickshaw ride.

It’s just the sort of day when, irrespective of the weather, I put out my hand to catch the raindrops.