When I was growing up, there was a shop near my building called 'Funky'. I didn't go to that shop until my friends started having boyfriends and they wanted to buy something for them from there. I never quite fancied the place. But now that I think about it, I think he might have stocked good stuff because my friends would buy things for their men when things were getting serious. Funky was expensive. It's quite a cool name for a store.
A friend came over yesterday and it was nice. Very nice actually. I really needed to unwind after a hard day at work. It promises to be this way for a while now, at least a year maybe.
A little bit of toffee-type joys that I get are from the texts and messages that my close friends send me...a forward here or there, a picture of what they are eating, a bizarre tree or bug they saw in their balcony...it feels good. Together, I think, it's an atlas of delicious resilient ordinariness...our daily lives as continents.
Papa will now be staying in Vashi. His friend is visiting and he is quite excited. I would have liked both he and his friend to be where I can keep an eye but...one needs to let your parents have their own life, I guess. I feel a little sad when I see the chess board (which is not required in Vashi because said friend has brought one).
Today one of my help asked me if I was planning on leaving. I asked where. She said that she had heard that I was leaving the house. Then a neighbour asked me that. And then 7 brokers called me up to ask me when (not if) I can give my house on rent. It's really bizarre.
But it did get me thinking...do I want to leave? Should I? On the face of it, I don't think I want to. In fact, I am planning my work life on the premise that I live here. But is there something else, some vibe, that I am giving off to the Universe and people...that I am about to go away?
It's like my suitcases and my chilly plant (that has grown taller are) are playing chess with each other. One makes its move with all this talk of me leaving. The other makes its move by digging its roots a little deeper. Who will win?
But a line from 'Being Cyrus' comes to mind. 'After the game is over, the king and the pawn go back to the same box.' (Or some variation thereof.)
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