I took her out to celebrate, bought her some stuff (she looks so beautiful decked up), went on a long drive... just a little private time together to convey to her how much she means to me and how important a part of my life she is.
Yup, my car is now one month old. And boy, do I love her.
There's something incredibly special about the first major investment one makes with one's own, hard-earned money. The sheer exhiliration, the thrill, the oh-my-god-I'm-so-grown-up feeling. And the insane attachment to the object. Buying her in my second month of employment resulted in my bank balance becoming very dangerously low, but I didn't care. I'm probably going to sell her a year or so from now when I move out of Gurgaon, but she'll always be special. There'll always be a little corner of my heart where will nestle an image of my Alto.
She isn't particularly remarkable in terms of looks; there are a million others just like her across India. But she'll always be the most beautiful of them all to me.
Some of my friends refer to their cars/bikes as their mistresses or girlfriends (which allows for corny dialogues like "I was riding her last night"), but for some inexplicable reason I view my car as a daughter. A little kid who has brought new meaning, a new emotional focus to my life, someone who I will nurture as she grows older and her wide eyed innocence (silky smooth gearshift, lovely suspension) meets the big bad world (potholes, pollution, maniacal drivers). Someone who, in just a matter of minutes, can make me forget my worries and strifes. Some who, without a single word, can cheer me up when I'm down. Someone to come home to (or with) after a hard day's work.
As she grows older, she will begin to rebel. She'll acquire a mind of her own, one that simply will not listen to what I have to say. She'll grumble and whine and be difficult. And someday, she'll leave me and go to someone else, someone who will become the new center of her life. But I'll always love her.
Happy Birthday, baby.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
Ask not what your country can do for you...
Ask who you can do for your country.
This piece of news is just brilliant.
If you're thinking what I'm thinking, these links - One and Two - should help.
This piece of news is just brilliant.
If you're thinking what I'm thinking, these links - One and Two - should help.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
What part of "It's a Sunday" do you not understand?
I look forward to the weekends as a time for me to wake up late, laze around and in general not be bound by the need to be at work.
Last night, I had a nice dinner and then watched a couple of movies back to back. I went to bed at 4 a.m., content in the knowledge that the foundations of my world would not be shaken if I didn't wake before 2 p.m. Or, at the very earliest, noon.
Fate had other plans for me.
8:00 a.m.:
The doorbell peals loud and long, breaking through the suffused fog of my dreamless sleep. I search for and put on my glasses (why the $%@# are they never where I left them last night?) and stagger to the front door. The unwelcome visitor is a refrigerator delivery guy. Yes, a refrigerator. At freaking 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning. What makes things infinitely worse is that the delivery isn't even meant for me; the guy had the address wrong. I make it clear to him that I most definitely do not want the refrigerator and if he didn't clear off my doorstep in 2 seconds, I'd be glad to show him where he could go put that blasted refrigerator of his. I swear loudly at the world in general, and at lost refrigerator delivery guys in particular, and go back to bed.
8:15 a.m.:
The doorbell again. This time it's the guy who washes the cars. And he's brought a friend! He goes into this long story of how he is going home for the week and his friend will be standing in for him. I hand him the keys and stumble back to bed in a sleepy stupor, stubbing my toe on the doorframe along the way. Another volley of curses before I drift back into sleep.
8:30 a.m.:
Yup, you guessed it. The doorbell. Now it's the newspaper guy come to collect his monthly payment. He doesn't have change for a hundred, so I lean groggily against the doorframe while he wakes up the neighbours to get the change from them. The neighbour offers an obscenely cheerful "Hi!"; I reply with "Grumble mumble freakin’ hell mumble grumble" and find my way back to bed.
8:45 a.m.:
You know the routine. (Suspense isn't one of the strong points of this narrative.) The car-wash guy's friend is back. He hands over the key and goes into this long spiel about how the original car-wash guy isn't really all that great, how he does a poor job, and how he (the speaker) would be way better. He ends with an earnest request that we transfer car-wash duties to him on a permanent basis and not trust his friend, the current car-wash guy. Complicated story? Try listening to it when you're half-awake, blurry-eyed and desperately trying to make sense of broken Hindi with a heavy Bengali accent. For all I know, he could have been talking about the body organ sales market in the area. Heck, for all I know I probably promised him my kidney. I have no idea what I said to him, but he eventually left. Having learnt my lesson, I plop down on the sofa near the door and try to get some sleep.
9:00 a.m.:
The @#%$%@%@$@ doorbell again. This time it's the garbage collection guy, politely enquiring if I have any garbage to be disposed of. I have loads of it, but I neither have the stamina nor the interest to go through the process. I promise to give him cartloads of garbage tomorrow if only he would please please go away. (Looking back, I shouldn't have done that; the poor chap looked a little hurt.)
The morning was ruined. There was no way whatsoever I could go back to sleep after that. I was condemned to live the day in a zombie-like stupor/trance. And that's that.
So much for Sundays.
Last night, I had a nice dinner and then watched a couple of movies back to back. I went to bed at 4 a.m., content in the knowledge that the foundations of my world would not be shaken if I didn't wake before 2 p.m. Or, at the very earliest, noon.
Fate had other plans for me.
8:00 a.m.:
The doorbell peals loud and long, breaking through the suffused fog of my dreamless sleep. I search for and put on my glasses (why the $%@# are they never where I left them last night?) and stagger to the front door. The unwelcome visitor is a refrigerator delivery guy. Yes, a refrigerator. At freaking 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning. What makes things infinitely worse is that the delivery isn't even meant for me; the guy had the address wrong. I make it clear to him that I most definitely do not want the refrigerator and if he didn't clear off my doorstep in 2 seconds, I'd be glad to show him where he could go put that blasted refrigerator of his. I swear loudly at the world in general, and at lost refrigerator delivery guys in particular, and go back to bed.
8:15 a.m.:
The doorbell again. This time it's the guy who washes the cars. And he's brought a friend! He goes into this long story of how he is going home for the week and his friend will be standing in for him. I hand him the keys and stumble back to bed in a sleepy stupor, stubbing my toe on the doorframe along the way. Another volley of curses before I drift back into sleep.
8:30 a.m.:
Yup, you guessed it. The doorbell. Now it's the newspaper guy come to collect his monthly payment. He doesn't have change for a hundred, so I lean groggily against the doorframe while he wakes up the neighbours to get the change from them. The neighbour offers an obscenely cheerful "Hi!"; I reply with "Grumble mumble freakin’ hell mumble grumble" and find my way back to bed.
8:45 a.m.:
You know the routine. (Suspense isn't one of the strong points of this narrative.) The car-wash guy's friend is back. He hands over the key and goes into this long spiel about how the original car-wash guy isn't really all that great, how he does a poor job, and how he (the speaker) would be way better. He ends with an earnest request that we transfer car-wash duties to him on a permanent basis and not trust his friend, the current car-wash guy. Complicated story? Try listening to it when you're half-awake, blurry-eyed and desperately trying to make sense of broken Hindi with a heavy Bengali accent. For all I know, he could have been talking about the body organ sales market in the area. Heck, for all I know I probably promised him my kidney. I have no idea what I said to him, but he eventually left. Having learnt my lesson, I plop down on the sofa near the door and try to get some sleep.
9:00 a.m.:
The @#%$%@%@$@ doorbell again. This time it's the garbage collection guy, politely enquiring if I have any garbage to be disposed of. I have loads of it, but I neither have the stamina nor the interest to go through the process. I promise to give him cartloads of garbage tomorrow if only he would please please go away. (Looking back, I shouldn't have done that; the poor chap looked a little hurt.)
The morning was ruined. There was no way whatsoever I could go back to sleep after that. I was condemned to live the day in a zombie-like stupor/trance. And that's that.
So much for Sundays.
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