Smells at Night

Mahatma Gandhi's birthday was spent pretty much at home. There was little reason for violence or non-violence.

Though I was a little violent to the dog who was violent at me. And the feeling was pretty much reciprocal.

Brunch constituted of mutton cooked day before yesterday and rice prepared fresh.

Dinner had to be made thrice - eggs and sandwiches because each time I'd make it and dash off to wash my hands in the loo, the rats would come and break the sunny side of the egg and move the bread around a bit. I was third time lucky.

There were many phone calls. I think I will keep the phone off now on when I work.

And of course didn't write.

First you prepare to do it. Then you prepare to prepare to do it. Then you prepare to prepare to prepare to do it. Let's try again tomorrow. There's got to be some way of breaking the vicious cycle!

And then tomorrow is a workday. Which means the corporation. My Mama. Muah. I love you, my employee. My management. You are so good. You fuck me more regularly and with greater monotony than any woman would could will.

I dont think I will sleep tonight.

A thought suddenly came stuck. It was about the smell of the raat ki raani flowers in this season in Delhi. I smelt it the other day, returning from work. How does one describe it? How does one draw it?

And most importantly how does one hide it? It is like the sadness that darkens the valleys around your eyes. People see it and shake their heads. And then they say - Nothing is worth it. Nobody is worth it.

LOL. What do they know?