On The Mark...
(Fiction) Copyright, Puneet Gupta, 2014
Its a fine Saturday morning. I am cozily wrapped inside the many layers of my blanket. Its the typical August laze of the morning that keeps me tucked in long after I have woken up. If I just open the window, the cool Bangalore breeze would welcome me into the day. The wind chime from the balcony just outside my bedroom is swaying gleefully in mirth. I know I should get up. Just five more minutes - I tell myself.
Twenty five minutes later, I am still in bed. My phone rings. Its a friend. I want to talk to him, but cant. My mouth is all bitter and dry, like its on all mornings. This is despite the night brushing and rinsing ritual of every night. Its always been like this. My friends joke about it. If we are on a trip together, they would tease me into speaking when I get up. I never give in. It feels like I would puke if I talk. So, I dont pick up the phone. It rings five times, and then goes silent. I have tonnes of things lined up for the day. I should get up. Ten minutes later, I am still tossing on my mattress. The street outside is getting noisier. I can hear the hawkers with their produce of fish, milk, mint, tomatoes and flowers, calling out to the housewives around. An occasional raddi-waala joins in with cries of "newspaper", "bottles" and "cans". Its a daily ritual. I can make them out even in my current state of slumber. Each of them has a distinct voice, a musical intonation of their cries for attention, and a clientele that is only too happy to benefit from their services at their doorsteps. I envy their early start. I have so much to do. Its a weekend, but my roster is full. Its not that I have to work. There are just things I have assigned to myself. A to-do list of sorts for myself. Nothing that I mind doing. In fact, stuff that I love to do. Its usually fun.
My first stop is at the grocery store. I have a couple of friends coming over for dinner. A trip to a nearby gallery to speak with the curator about an upcoming exhibition. And then picking up some plants and manure for my miniature garden. Between shopping, cooking and phone calls, I need to make time to proof-read and edit a friend's resume (she is applying for a new job), order new books online, pay some bills, check out a new laptop and finalize the colors my parents should paint the walls of our new home in Delhi. The painting I started a few weeks back is craving for some attention too, standing silently on the easel by the side of the studio room in my apartment. And then there is the script that I started writing for a play. I have the plot in my mind and the characters lined up in my mind. But I have managed to write only two scenes so far. My theater group is waiting patiently for the script, eager to start auditioning and rehearsing. I will get to all of it, I tell myself. Thinking about these things makes me anxious, feeling daunted by how much needs to be done. I don’t know where to start. That’s a lie. I do know. But somehow, I am not able to bring myself to starting.
The bitterness in my mouth is now becoming intolerable. I give in and reluctantly get out of my bed. I drag myself into the bathroom and start brushing. My eyes are still held closed, droopy and drowsy. After a few minutes I decide it must be enough. I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face. The sudden shock of cold water stimulates my senses. I can smell the aromatic waft of sambhar from the apartment next door. I can feel my stomach grumbling. I go back to the bedroom and make the bed. I go to the studio and pick out a post-it pad. With a steady hand, I jot down my itinerary for the day. I get my backpack out and check my wallet for cash. I take a quick shower and a quicker breakfast. Armed with a bottle of water, my sunglasses and the post-it pad, I set out to my assignments for the weekend. Back in my empty apartment lingers on my wish for a day off.
Its a fine Saturday morning. I am cozily wrapped inside the many layers of my blanket. Its the typical August laze of the morning that keeps me tucked in long after I have woken up. If I just open the window, the cool Bangalore breeze would welcome me into the day. The wind chime from the balcony just outside my bedroom is swaying gleefully in mirth. I know I should get up. Just five more minutes - I tell myself.
Twenty five minutes later, I am still in bed. My phone rings. Its a friend. I want to talk to him, but cant. My mouth is all bitter and dry, like its on all mornings. This is despite the night brushing and rinsing ritual of every night. Its always been like this. My friends joke about it. If we are on a trip together, they would tease me into speaking when I get up. I never give in. It feels like I would puke if I talk. So, I dont pick up the phone. It rings five times, and then goes silent. I have tonnes of things lined up for the day. I should get up. Ten minutes later, I am still tossing on my mattress. The street outside is getting noisier. I can hear the hawkers with their produce of fish, milk, mint, tomatoes and flowers, calling out to the housewives around. An occasional raddi-waala joins in with cries of "newspaper", "bottles" and "cans". Its a daily ritual. I can make them out even in my current state of slumber. Each of them has a distinct voice, a musical intonation of their cries for attention, and a clientele that is only too happy to benefit from their services at their doorsteps. I envy their early start. I have so much to do. Its a weekend, but my roster is full. Its not that I have to work. There are just things I have assigned to myself. A to-do list of sorts for myself. Nothing that I mind doing. In fact, stuff that I love to do. Its usually fun.
My first stop is at the grocery store. I have a couple of friends coming over for dinner. A trip to a nearby gallery to speak with the curator about an upcoming exhibition. And then picking up some plants and manure for my miniature garden. Between shopping, cooking and phone calls, I need to make time to proof-read and edit a friend's resume (she is applying for a new job), order new books online, pay some bills, check out a new laptop and finalize the colors my parents should paint the walls of our new home in Delhi. The painting I started a few weeks back is craving for some attention too, standing silently on the easel by the side of the studio room in my apartment. And then there is the script that I started writing for a play. I have the plot in my mind and the characters lined up in my mind. But I have managed to write only two scenes so far. My theater group is waiting patiently for the script, eager to start auditioning and rehearsing. I will get to all of it, I tell myself. Thinking about these things makes me anxious, feeling daunted by how much needs to be done. I don’t know where to start. That’s a lie. I do know. But somehow, I am not able to bring myself to starting.
The bitterness in my mouth is now becoming intolerable. I give in and reluctantly get out of my bed. I drag myself into the bathroom and start brushing. My eyes are still held closed, droopy and drowsy. After a few minutes I decide it must be enough. I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face. The sudden shock of cold water stimulates my senses. I can smell the aromatic waft of sambhar from the apartment next door. I can feel my stomach grumbling. I go back to the bedroom and make the bed. I go to the studio and pick out a post-it pad. With a steady hand, I jot down my itinerary for the day. I get my backpack out and check my wallet for cash. I take a quick shower and a quicker breakfast. Armed with a bottle of water, my sunglasses and the post-it pad, I set out to my assignments for the weekend. Back in my empty apartment lingers on my wish for a day off.
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