It’s the kind of Sunday when my phone constantly beeps. No human communication, just an incoming stream of promotional messages and reminders for bills past their due date.
The kind of Sunday when I call on my sister, and hold a 2-minute search party for a book I thought I’d misplaced. Only to find it myself, tucked neat into my loyal green rucksack, still lying on my bedroom floor. In the mover’s box with half of my clothes, that I haven’t unpacked over months now, in an attempt to reassure myself that the move is temporary.
‘The kind of Sunday when I want to leave’, I type as I ice my heels, injured from too many jump squats. Thinking of running while I can barely walk. Definitely me.
There’s no remedy for bad form, really. It persists; you persevere.
Okay, that got a dry chuckle. ‘Good! This is working’, I tell myself and continue.
It’s the kind of Sunday when I have just completed reading High Fidelity, and now want to debate the subtle differences between the movie, the series and the book. But I don’t know anybody who’s been exposed to all three, or anybody that cares to have these discussions really. Unless on a date, or drunk. Neither situation interests me right now.
It’s the kind of Sunday when I look forward to staying in. So not a lot unlike these last few days. But today, I’m going to begin Peter Colaco’s Bangalore. Because I miss Bangalore. And I am too proud to call up the people I miss in Bangalore and tell them I miss them. Yes, I’m the cause of all my misery. We agree. Only sometimes though.
Ha! Okay, wordplay is fun. I should do this more often.
Really amusing how intelligence can co-exist with absolute stupidity. I am clearly a cat.
It’s the kind of Sunday when Tumi Robe Nirobe is playing on the neighborhood loudspeaker. And while I’m not the biggest fan of Rabindrasangeet or even acquainted with all of them, I approve. Verbatim, the title translates to ‘You will quietly remain within me’. So yes, this is why High Fidelity touched a chord with me. I’m some type of younger Indian female Rob Fleming. Of course, with lesser musical knowledge.
It’s the kind of Sunday when I recall my friend warmly texting me to ‘bloom where I’m planted. …Because it’s exhausting otherwise.’ She and I, both know, ‘being planted’ is not one of my strong suits. And I will willfully exhaust myself. You and I can wager a bet for how long though.
It’s the kind of Sunday when I linger on the larger discussion with this friend. Who said I come across as ‘lost’, professionally. She tells me I need stability and I need to stick a job out. I agree, partly. I try to explain how I’ve done pretty much any kind of writing, anybody could do professionally, since I started my career. My argument roughly translating to, ‘growth, just horizontally’. I don’t say that there’s been vertical growth too. She means well. I understand her point. I tell her my varied experience has made me employable in all these areas.
I suppose I am a hardcore generalist. This is difficult to explain. I can see why I come across as ‘confused’. I am not, I’m just hungry for life. Or less cringey-ly put, I am a child. I want to do everything, learn everything, experience it all. Why should I stop myself from suddenly becoming your Sunday newspaper columnist or art-house cinema scriptwriter?
Maybe, it’s the money. How do I tell you that I have grown up with varied interests, and couldn’t pursue them because I found myself restricted from the opportunity?
I almost studied Psychology. I almost studied Sociology. I almost went to art school. I almost went to film school. These are all subjects that continue to interest me, even if I didn’t pursue majors in them.
Life has been kind. I landed a journalist’s job without going to journalism school. All media became paid media, I stopped wanting a Press Card. I switched to Marketing. Now, I make money enough to entertain my interests. I don’t intend to stop. But I do intend to keep ‘playing’. So, I guess, what I am saying is, I don’t want to ‘grow up’. I want to grow around.
Suppose that’s a bit of an oversimplification. I was also majorly depressed, and didn’t foresee living out my 20s. Look at me now. Twenty-fucking-nine. And only for a few more months.
It’s the kind of Sunday when I wake up miserable, but write myself into a better mood. Just like I would, back in the day. ( I see what you did there, therapist. But thank you, all the same. 🙂
It’s really, just the kind of Sunday, when I’m ready to be honest.
So here I am.
literaryfreaktion 