It's a Sunday afternoon in Delhi. I am sitting in my dusty house, typing this out in my emphatically non-qwerty keypad and waiting for the mistri who's to come an hour later. So, well, one finds oneself inhabiting moments that, even though one doesn't mind them, are very far beyond the realm of the expected. There's a nirvana-like quality in sweating out the mild heat of the apartment, hoping for an undisturbed hour, hoping to avoid catching a cold from the dust, staring at the faded fabric of old jeans. It would be pleasant to settle down, wouldn't it?, but there are so many things that must be taken care of into which it is difficult to factor in someone else: they might not want to be factored in.
Can i say that i find the challenge of making this house an inhabitable place mildly exciting & therefore want to take it on?
I don't like this locality. The houses smell of joint families & ghee, that it's far from what for lack of a better word one calls cosmopolitan. It's hard to figure how the Punjabi or Marwari or Jat thinks, one only knows to be wary.
Bad English is my birthright
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