So it is raining again. And I want to write. No senti this time though, because frankly, I am not in the mood. I have had THREE injections today, and my left upper arm is in agony right now. Until this morning, I liked injections, ok? For someone who just does not have the stomach (or the guts) for roller coaster rides and skydiving and any of those other activities that people put up show offy pictures of (ha!), injections have always provided my cheap thrill quotient. After all, what is more courageous (or… psychotic) than tolerating pain unfazed, no? So while other kids bawled their eyes out like sane little children during vaccinations, I always wore a psycho grin. Not anymore though. Thanks to a painful left upper arm, I can’t even practice my Bollywood dance moves. So the affair is over, and I am moving on.
What I want to say to The U S of A that is making me have all these shots is: Kanna. I come from a country where food isn’t food if not handled by a man who scratches his armpits and crotch before giving it to you. Where the common cold is a feature of the human anatomy, almost as integral as hair and nails. Meningitiscoccus and all jujupi. Immunizations and all, pooh.
So I’ve been home, unemployed, for almost a month now. Waking up late, and just shopping until dropping (grammatically incorrect and overused, but perfectly articulate AND rhyming). I walk into my room every day now, and see a huge suitcase stuffed with new new things. New jeans, new T shirts, new shoes. Very kalakkara Chandru. That’s what I have been blowing my one year’s blood-and-sweat savings on.
When I look at the new stuff, I marvel at HOW I mustered the patience to buy so much, when I usually feel faint the minute I pick out one T shirt AND try it on. So yes, I have accomplished something in these last few days of relative unproductivity – developing a stamina for shopping. Only nightclothes to go, and since those are my favouritest clothes ever, I am all excited. The things that you own, end up owning you and all that. Shame on me.
Only now is it sinking in that I am going away someplace far away, not to be back for a year at least. It has been raining goodbyes – friends coming over, me visiting them… So many loose ends left to be tied, so many closures to provide. Foes look like friends now, and friends look like something else. Sometimes I just can’t wait to leave, just so I can bypass all this sentiness, confusion and guilt over screwing up. Not to mention this painful onion cutting while learning to make pulav and raita. I can’t wait to come closer to attacking the books again, and exploring a new city.
But most of the time, I am content with sitting on my ass at home, enjoying the unpredictable Madras showers. I try not to think of how much things are going to change in the next one year – my grandparents and parents will be older, my kid sister will probably become taller than me, and my friends will forget how I look in the flesh. While a lot of momentous events occur in my home, I am going to be sitting thousands of miles away leading a new life, bound by thousands of unbroken, invisible, intangible threads to people halfway across the world.
No mood for senti, really. The other night, I watched Roman Holiday and The Sound of Music back to back, and went to bed all fuzzy and warm. Tonight, it shall be My Fair Lady, and Casablanca?
