WHEN HOME IS AWAY…

Days pass in foggy detail, in a blur of riding all over town looking for inspiration, late night movies, carrot juice on the roadside and frustrating attempts to move a 75 kg scooter up a narrow stone ramp. The old Hyderabad city-meets-Mada Streets world is infinitely fascinating to live in. But it isn’t K K Nagar.

The ‘week’, which sometimes lasts up to 14 days, is finally drawing to a close. Blood gushes to the peripheries, rendering you hyper and restive. Work seems meaningless, as a silly grin refuses to leave your face. The clock strikes 4 p.m., but you are nowhere close to getting done. But the motivation is fierce, and quality takes a backseat. You send it in, and take off yourself, skipping down the stairs to the one bike that stands out in the entire sea of two wheelers on Mission Street, thanks to the gaudy yellow stickers on royal purple, screaming ‘PRESS’. 

Charger, purse and medicines – all else is insignificant; you know that. Still, you set aside your favourite pair of jeans, and at least 5 shirts, in anticipation of some miracle that will prolong your stay. The white shirt for the movie, the striped tunic for dinner, and of course, no trip would be complete without your Superman T shirt. The first things that find their way in though, are those dirty clothes that you are too lazy to wash yourself. Books, toiletries, trinkets – somehow they all find their space in that capacious sac. And you are off.

In what seems like an endless stretch of time, the bus slowly weaves its way out of the fetid bus stop. The bus hits the highway, and you finally begin to relax and lean back into your seat. Your legs are cramped beneath the seat ahead of you, and your own seat protests in pain. But with raindrops pelting your face and the wind whipping the wisps of hair that have escaped your ponytail, your throat only chokes up inexplicably in a sudden surge of emotion. The bus ride is akin to running into welcoming arms, in slo mo. 

You wrench the ear plugs of your I pod off, as you turn the familiar corner. Irrespective of the weight of the backpack, you break into a 100 metre dash to the gate, throw it open and run upstairs. And it’s all a haze again, Gundu lifting you and dropping you on the ground with a thud, hugging a grimacing Amma and jumping up and down, running inside the house aimlessly like a juvenile 3 year old… 

Everything seems right suddenly, the week’s cynicism washed down with urulakazhangu curry, nei-drenched sudra saadam and rasam. And the thair sadam that you’ve waited for all week, of course. Catching up on family gossip over vanilla custard and banana. Nameless movie on HBO with Gundu. Random youtube videos, chat and blog post until you realize its 4 a.m. Unearthly hour shower before curling up into your bed. 

10 a.m., you wake up to Amma’s endless tirade on how ugly your skin is, how sparse your hair is, amazed at how comforting it is to listen to her scream. More custard, followed by more gossip and a thousand phone calls, until you yourself begin to feel the need to bathe. Bisibela bath, cucumber raita and oily oily appalam nearly moves you to tears. Guilty indulgence in the AC in Amma’s room, with an Archie comic or a Mills and Boon. Non-stop needling of Gundu. Happy laughing in the evening with friends, going out, or staying indoors over raucous games of Uno.

Now you begin to dread the end of the day. Amma hands you bills and important papers to take back. You sit at the computer desperately, as if that machine can rewind time. It can’t. Gundu gives you your hug and immediately falls asleep. Appa’s call lasts about ten minutes, and then Amma hits the sack. The quiet of the house itself saddens you immensely, as you move around, putting together the things you have to take back. 

Freshly pressed clothes, books, bags are all arranged neatly at the foot of the bed. And then you crawl in, into whatever little space remains and curl up. You shut your eyes, and pray that tomorrow never comes, wishing you could go on revelling in the comfort, nay, luxury of your own bed in your own home. 

Before you know it, its 5 a.m. Life is cruel.