The Story

"Some people pass through your life and you never think about them. And there are some you think about, and wonder "whatever happened to them"? Dentist, maybe. Gossip columnist. No - divorce lawyer. Some you wonder if they ever wondered what happened to you. And then there are those... you wish you never had to think about again. But you do."

I suppose there are days in all our lives that we look back at and wonder if the cruel parting of ways with the quilt first thing in the morning was worth the trouble. Lazy chumps like my brother probably have them practically all the time. Though not the most industrious soul alive, I treat my past less derisively and strive to find a silver lining in even the gloomiest of days. Yesterday was one of those rare occasions when there wasn't one.

It was a pleasant Sunday afternoon- the sun was up, the birds chirped and all seemed well. I left for the CCD on Lloyds' Road for my daily dose of caffeine only to run into Miss Muffet. 'Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine,' I exclaimed, only to be condescendingly reminded by the waiter that neither was the place a gin joint nor was it mine. Bemoaning the drop in the IQ of waiters in these parts, I jostled my way past a horde of coochie-cooing couples and greeted the lady.

If she was even remotely pleased by this chance meeting, she concealed it brilliantly. Miss Muffet seemed to have put on a few pounds since we'd last met, but, in retroispect, telling her so was probably not the best way to kick start our tête-à-tête.

Strange really. Ever since the time I first set sight on Metro Goldwyn Mayer's roaring lion, Hollywood had drilled into me a notion that a meeting of ex-es was a sight to behold- you know, old sparks flying and all that rot. That fateful afternoon, though, the darned sparks didn't so much as budge. To cut a long story short, my huge hopes for the summer have come to all but nothing. I shall return to R-Land later this week with my feet firmly entrenched in bachelorhood, perhaps firmer than they have ever been.

Oh well. Que sera sera.

Getting the BALS Rolling

Anyone standing beside Delhi's renowned India Gate at dusk that evening would be forgiven for thinking that he was in a scene straight out of a Hollywood period drama- Peter Jackson's latest epic, prehaps. The weather was more forgiving than it had been all month, with temperatures hovering around the 30 degree mark. Yes, touch wood, fingers crossed and all that. Even amidst the chaos of traffic, dust and street-hawkers, the sunset was quite a spectacle. As was the case with most sunsets, I soon pictured myself walking into it with the lady of my life. On this occasion, it was Ana Ivanovic. 'God is the greatest director of them all', declared Dreamy Joe, cruelly ending my wondeful reverie, 'and the capital his maginificent canvas.' 'Nothing wrong with the sets or the director', I replied, 'but he could have done a better job picking his actors.'

I'll board the Tamilnadu Express four days from now, bringing down the curtains on a fairly eventful stint at the capital. Many of my notions about the city and its people have altered considerably, though not always for the better. For one thing, the place is hotter than I'd imagined. Nevertheless, I have spent a month amidst Delhi-ites without losing my sanity, which is a fairly pleasant surprise. One thing that i have learnt is that if you leave logic and etiquette by your bedside table, Delhi is a wonderful place to live in.

'Lodhi Road isn't actually a road,' the Boss informed me a month ago, 'it's a locality. To get there, you'll have to take a bus to Sarai Kale Khan, which isn't a Sarai, but a bus terminus', the conversation strangely reminescent of a scene from one of my favourite movies ('Tum jo ho woh tum nahi ho, tum woh ho. Woh jo hai, woh wo nahi hai, woh tum ho. Main jo hoon kya main hoon?' Does it ring a bell?)

Over the course of the past two months, many have wondered what I did at work. A couple even asked me if I took a pillow along. Flustered, I have decided to put you, dear reader, through my average working day- a day in the life of Dela, if you like.

7.15: The alarm rings. Put it on snooze and continue sleeping.

7.20: It rings again. Slam it on the table to see if that makes it stop.

8.10: Wake up.

8.50: Stand in the sun waiting for that blighted 323.

10.00: Try to come up with a credible excuse for turning up an hour late.

10.15: Realize that noone really cares.

10.30: Start Firefox and open 3 tabs- Gmail, Facebook and sciencedirect.com

10.45: Set off for a cup of coffee, hoping to run into an HR girl I'd been eyeing for a while.

10.48: Find noone there.

11.30: Boss walks in asking for a report I'd been assigned two days ago. I start talking about his tie instead, buying myself a few precious minutes.

12.15: Submit the report courtesy Messrs Jimmy Wales and Larry Sanger.

12.30: Another round of coffee. Still no sign of the HR Girl.

2.15: Lunch time. Walk to the cafeteria with my colleagues only to find Rajma Rice and Aloo Zeera on the menu.

2.18: Pretend to receive a phone call and slip away to Eatopia.

2.23: Gorge on the best fusilli ever made by man.

3.10: The boss walks in with another assignment. Once again, the conversation turns to his ruddy tie.

4.05: To the coffee machine again. HR Girl is there this time, putting forth her two pence-worth on the Rupee-$ rate, how it had to stabilize around 47 for an optimal exchange-rate, export advantages and all that jazz. My opinion is sought. The only 47 I know is the bus that got me here from Andrews Ganj, I tell her. HR Girl leaves with a grunt. I continue to sip my cup of Georgia Gold, still wondering whether or not she got the joke.

5.15: One last cup of coffee and I'm off for the day. As they say, all in a day's work .