Hell – IV

Sunday - The day I’d cherish. I’d enjoy the Luxury of a few extra hours of sleep. Then I’d spend an hour on the newspaper including the backlog of the past week. Cutting out stuff from the paper and putting it away carefully in scrapbooks. Occasionally finding an interesting scrap that I’d loved earlier and re – reading it. Finding some new flavor of chips at the corner grocery store and trying it out. Small things, the good things that are supposed to come in small packages, I’d been satisfied with it, recognizing in it the glimmerings of memory that would take on a life of their own when I’d cross over into that tiny patch of sunlight that is the right of every senile old man.

I woke up one fairly sunny Sunday morning with nothing on my mind. It was about 3 weeks since I’d accepted Loyana’s offer and I hadn’t heard from her since. I’d hear from her eventually but that was still some way off.

I walked out on to the tiny balcony that was my little safety spot. Open to the fresh air and yet enclosed on all sides by sturdy stone railings. It was ugly as sin but at least it was there and provided a safe place to get some air when there was a power cut (which was pretty frequent). In the weeks to come I’d curl up against the railings more often than not, trying to find something to hold on to as things unfolded with blinding speed.

The winter sunlight lay in small pools of gold on the cool marble floor, broken into fragments by the flame of the forest that grew in the small garden that was carefully tended by our landlady.

As I inhaled the smell that is essentially India – a scent of dust, sunlight, the sweat of daily wage workers, cow dung, open drains, floral scents, pollen grains, beedi smoke, winter sweets, hard candy coaxed out of jaggery and spiced with aniseed, peanuts roasted over a charcoal fire, camel hide baked by the harsh sun, and tea; spiced with ginger and spiked with gossip – an entire civilization contained within a single breath.

I filled my lungs with it, gulping down the purifying morning oxygen that lay beneath it all, trying to understand the restlessness that filled my being. For the first time I felt that the small things were not enough, not what I had envisaged. I wanted to go out; I wanted more than just the lazy solitude that had settled into my being. I wanted to explore life.

With only a tiny frission of wonder I stepped back inside and pulled off my nightshirt. I’d decided to go shopping. And why not, I had a lot of money left over. I might as well enjoy it while I could.

It is a widespread belief that in India an individual from the GIMC (Great Indian Middle Class) can exist on any amount of money, from 500 a month to 5, 00,000 a month. Every individual in the GIMC contracts or expands themselves to fit into the constraints imposed by their monthly income; they do this with a flexibility that puts contortionists to shame and defies the laws of physics.

I'd always been a part of the GIMC, variating between the various levels or rather going into a free fall from the creamy layered upper middle class to the bottom of the barrel, I’d inched along that bottom, toiling up the smooth walls attempting forever to carve out niches along the way; I had followed the rules faithfully. I’d now decided, without any conscious thought, that it was time to break a few.