The last time I felt this way was a year ago after the Goa trip. It was N, S & me spending our last half an hour together at the airport in Goa. It was an incredible sadness. The kind that makes you wallow for days on end. Where every memory is magnified. Where you feel teary reminiscing even the dumbest parts of the trip. We all knew something special had happened. Four childhood friends (we’ve known each other since we were 4) had finally taken time out of their ridiculous schedules and tangled love lives and taken a holiday together. We had laughed, we had cried, we had got drunk, lost, angry, jealous, irritated, infatuated, hungry and gluttonously full. We had rediscovered each other. We were whole again.
Bear with me as I tell you how sitting here in the Delhi airport all alone and typing rapidly makes me feel the same way. While I don’t really miss the people I’ve spent the last month and a half with and while I definitely don’t miss the city, I do miss a way of life. It’s a weird feeling. Albeit temporary. Halfway between Stockholm syndrome and pure habit. I feel like those once reluctant iffy tourists who came to India, ended up staying in some shady shack in Colaba and by sheer lurid experience, shock and over-action of their parasympathetic systems developed an unconditional love for the city and the country as a whole. So unconditional, that when it became time to leave…they simply didn’t.
Is it any wonder then that I’ve changed my flight thrice in the last two days? I didn’t want to leave my dirty, filthy 4 star room this morning. I suddenly had the deluded feeling of wanting to be there forever. Just living out the rest of my life within those four dysfunctional walls. I wanted to get up every morning and call the transport guy in a state of semi consciousness and ask for a car. I wanted to stumble around all 150 sq feet of my room, find the hotel phone and call for hot water to have my green tea with, wash my hair, actually have the time to style it everyday, get into one of the crisp new t-shirts I’d have bought from M block market the previous evening (there’s a small peek into my shopping disorder), decide between D’s maternal pad for the night or a quite night alone in the room listening to the sound of my molester yapping loudly on the phone in the room next to mine (um because yes, he WAS in the room next to mine). Which brings me to molesters apology a day after the molestation where he called me from some random number to ensure I picked up and wonder of wonders proceeded to talk about the incident in third person… An excerpt -
“Err so I’ve been hearing that something happened last night… was someone rude to you? Or did I.. err…someone.. touch you?”
“yes YOU touched me”
“Err where did I touch you?” (incredulous)
“Are you apologizing or trying to embarrass yourself further?” (motherfucker gandu)
“Err sorry sorry, but please just be straight with me. I was too drunk. I don’t remember anything at all”
“Nothing at all??”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Absolutely. All I remember was passing out and I rested my head on your shoulder. Errr did you take offence to that” (sarcastic twat mode)
“Listen Gandu (I didn’t call him that but it’s really more impressive than his name), to put it simply, you squeezed my tits and leaned into my ear and whispered that you wanted to fuck me” (said with utmost deadpan tone)
“OH MY GAWD!OH MY GAWD!” (for like ten fucking minutes and I’m on roaming fucker)
Then the climactic third person clincher “Your dignity has been compromised. I can’t believe something like this happened to you. I’m the protector of the unit and something like this happened to you when I was around” (at this point I have decided the boy is certifiably a mental person)
Tone softens dramatically “Anyway you don’t have to worry about anything. Ok we are going for a movie In Satyam Nehru Place now. Want to join us?”
“Ok. Bye” (in complete satisfaction like he’d had a nice long bowel cleansing dump)
I just wrote this bit in office. (yes I came straight from airport, diligent no?) N my effervescent colleague has been reading my preceding blog posts next to me and has just remarked that my blog frustrates her as she feels like she has an empty sex life compared to mine. How she has come to this conclusion is beyond me. So I must address this right now. Firstly, my dear N, have you noticed that there has been no talk of sex like since er..many months(I just counted and almost fainted) so you know exactly how long it has been right? And secondly how on earth does molestation count? She says it does because she thinks molester is hot looking after I showed her his pics. But then N is mad that way.
Ok I must go now. I have to go home and unpack my four suitcases (I had gone with two!). Then I must wallow in my withdrawal. Then feel extremely sad that boy I liked was taken. (yes, THAT’S the secret reason for all this pathos), then eventually smile as I remember one moment – driving back from Gurgaon at 4:30 am, Karan at the wheel driving like a slow dream down Nelson Mandela Marg and me singing Fast Car sitting beside him with KB passed out in the backseat. Now, there’s a snapshot for life no facebook photo uploader will ever preserve as well as the space here halfway between my eyes and my heart.