A hop skip and a jump later

The city seems to be sleeping in a dusty brown glow of better yesterdays and the profound knowledge that things will never be the same. The sticky atmosphere clings to you, and the heat tends to almost numb your senses, prompting lethargy and idleness. Tangled webs of communication are switched on and off ever so faintly, and with each ongoing fingerprint, the intensity of light generated decreases. Seems like someone cried all over this city, leaving it raw and completely exposed.

Sometimes going away makes you realize just what you leave behind. I can hear my maid hum her favorite Star plus theme song as she makes me tea, while my dad just screamed at me for forgetting to put my miles into my frequent flyer card. School starts Monday, while SAT tuition starts tomorrow. My mom isn’t home, but will soon come and will plop herself down in a relatively clean part of my room (ah-clutter) and complain about work, the domestic staff, and life in general. My cables out, and when I came back, some idiot had unplugged all my computer wires. My brother is listening to his rap music way too loud, and my AC is letting out an old mouldy smell. My bathroom still has that faulty shower which just isn’t strong enough, and once again, I stepped into the shower without realizing that there was no towel there to dry me up. My friends scream when they walk in, I scream right back- amidst tight hugs and the expectant 'I missed you’s' we soon return to our reclined positions on my bed- chewing noisily on chocolate chip cookies and talking about school and what all ive missed out on- in other words- the usual.



KESC is at its unpredictable best, with my torch by my bedside, and my book gingerly held by my now exhausted fingers, I look up to see that same old fan, that S had so brilliantly colored in so that it almost hypnotizes you when its spinning. The smell of my coconut incense drapes over the pointless and unnecessary, as I once again, dare to dream.


Sure, ive been away for seven weeks, ive seen some of the best cities in the world, experienced life to its fullest. But now, in retrospect, it all seems so futile, so imaginary. Its like we existed in this little bubble of happiness for that time- resisting all the pulls of reality we fought to maintain our happy place of hotel rooms, alcohol, clubs, music and laughter. I have about 200 pictures and 5 million memories to bear witness to the fact that this summer, was not merely amazing- it was freakishly close to perfect. It felt so good that I almost felt guilty of feeling such sheer and untroubled joy- so beautifully distant from everyone and everything that could ever dare damage me. I felt I didn’t deserve it, or perhaps was letting myself get too optimistic. Life was never this good. Things don’t just work out. Right?


What ive realized is, that it wasn’t the feeling of inadequacy that made me question those days- it was the knowledge that they were numbered- each day adding to a countdown of how much fun I had been allotted. This couldn’t last- waking up in a plush Park Avenue apartment that a family member left me alone in for weeks. (He was either really really nice or just plain stupid- I suggest the latter.) Walking through central park to catch up with the rest of them. . We would sit at the back of the bus and sing Hide and Seek in our one of a kind Urdu Translation Remix. I still remember our waltz in the middle of Virgin while we waited for Liz to come out of the loo. We strided back and forth through the Jazz and Hip Hop section, indifferent to all the people staring and those that were horrible enough to laugh when we messed up. Dragging our asses back at 6 in the morning after watching Oakenfold live, and then feasting into cheap deli sushi, lying on one bed all 11 of us with our eyes shut while B’s original trance played on in the background. And then, drifting off alone, finally getting to see Dahli’s work up close and having the liberty to just stand and absorb till your eyes feel that they cant stand to soak up so much beauty in one go. Burying myself in a book store or strolling down Herald Square with my Starbucks original concoctions in hand (I threw in a shot of this and that every time- most of the time it was a disaster.) Me complaining that you cant eat Italian in China Town till I finally got my way, and then subsequently getting caught in the miserable rain till we gave up and went dancing up the streets full Indian movie style. (We scared the oriental folk). Singing old Elvis songs while searching for Burger King and the countless subway journeys, in which we managed to get all the way to the Bronx once instead of Upper East Side Manhattan.


My phone rings- ah mobilink is still as useless as it used to be. A broken and electronic version of G says hello and asks me how my trip was.

I smile and look around. My eyes flash over my cold tea and Marie biscuits, my torch (which was still going strong), my can of mortein (in case of the rare cockroach), and my mess of a bathroom with heaps of old shampoo bottles long discarded but never actually thrown out. I look down at my fingers, one so carefully bandaged by S when it randomly started bleeding and refused to stop. Her bright Detol idea stung like a bitch. My other finger was covered in ink from the long thankyou note I wrote to Mom and Dad. I just felt that a bottle of cologne couldn’t really convey the gratitude and the appreciation.


‘The trip? Trip was good. This is better.’