I am stuck in bengaluru. Three years of no headaches, no traffic jams and no broken hearts for anyone who saves me from here. Before Thursday. Tonight, I’ll be waiting.
I have an article to write, an audit to wrap up and three night’s sleep to catch up on, all the while remembering to put the “collect my laundry” sign on my door. I am still taking the metro, the hike from the station to the hotel has simmered down to an easy walk from the spirited hike it was, three days ago. The menu choices have slowly shifted from “cantonese fried rice” to “steamed rice” and the heat on my hair has dropped to sub zero levels. The theme of now, is survival.
Survival achieved by fighting impulses to get on flights to places, fighting instincts to get up and walk out of rooms and fighting the urge to not get up in the mornings. White linen has a profound effect on how sweet the sleep is. The resurgence of air conditioning is another slow trickle of anaesthesia into my sleep. But there is a pink train every seven minutes two kilometres away and my roommate loves talking to people who are half asleep. I slip out of the blanket and try to make 30 minute, 10 minute slots of the time left, a meek attempt at organisation. Shes a happy person in the mornings, almost too cheerful. It hurts to meet her with a sullen, grumpy face and it hurts more to hear her drill holes into my sweet, anaesthetic sleep.
My rationed courage is fast depleting and I want to be stuck in a true hyderabadi traffic jam, before it disappears altogether.
The night is young and there are one thousand words to be written, three sachets of sugar to be emptied and three spreadsheets to fill.