I've been spending too much time in the room. Havn't seen the sun in almost a week. This time it's not American Express. They think I have malaria. I hope that's what the cheap helpful doctor writes in. My friends think I'm happily wasting my life in the AC enabled corporate office. That's what I'll tell them. It'll save me from being part of all those condolence-unlimited-conversations. Yes, I got chucked. And it sucks.
So now the only consistent person in my life is the delivery guy from McDonald's. Poor guy has to climb four storeys every day, so that I can stay hidden. And fat. I hope he makes it to some NIT this year. His joint rolling skills will come in handy over there I'm sure. I have torn chappals and I really wish Bata would start some home delivery service. Something like "30 mins nahi toh free socks." Too much to ask. I reach Kamla Nagar and end up buying new ones. Reach home and realize they are too bouncy. Too new. They don't sell faded slippers. I hate these new chappals.
I've forgotten how my friends look. Someone must have gotten a haircut. I want to see them. If only all of us could just meet and not talk. Not be 'social'. I message them to find that they are in Arts Faculty, waiting for me. The only think I'm excited about is the Banta. 15 mins and I'm there. The new chappals give a bounce to my walk. I look like a 70's Disco Guy walking towards the dance floor when the DJ plays Bee Gees. I look happy. It works. No one asks any questions. Happy hugs all around. And I realize I need some real bad. I love these new chappals.
The Banta wallah doesn't have change. May be the doctor supplying the fake certificate does.
Maaznama: Letter to a four-year-old - Aazim Maaz:* Photo: Nawaid Anjum * Days before you left for Dhanbad with your mother, leaving me alone in Delhi, you kept telling me how you’d rather ...
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