Woo hoo! A place has been duly secured. We humbled ourselves before the Chettiar landlord, did namaste to his wife, and Skyped with the mandatory son in the States. And convinced them that these particular bachelors weren’t about to trash their beloved apartment with orgies and rivers of booze and honey. It’s expensive, but I think I should just about be able to afford it without taking money from my folks. The flat has great interiors and is in quite a posh neighbourhood. The neighbourhood reminds me of Delhi, in fact, with its community park in the middle and large cars parked on all the roads.
Perhaps best of all, it’s only about a 10-minute drive to work (compared to my present 45-min stop-start nuisance)– or it will be, if that bloody Cenotaph Road flyover ever gets around to being finished.
I know it’s been ages since I wrote a ‘proper’ post on Saale B. Something written because I wanted to say it, and not because I thought it was funny. (You poor things! How have you been managing?) It’s just that I’ve been mad busy with work. Mr Crowley prophesied it a few months ago– “Let’s see how long you can continue your daily blatherings once you enter the legal profession, lad,” were his very words, I think.
It also doesn’t help that since moving to Madras nigh on four months now, I haven’t bothered to fix up an internet connection at home. Airtel’s customer care in Tamil Nadu sucks to high heaven, for one. I have internet at work restricted only by the chance of other people seeing what comes up on my monitor, for two. And Last.fm fucking sold out and became a paid subscription, depriving me of my regular music stream, for three. (That’s the reason the “‘Now Playing” widget on the top right doesn’t update any more, by the way.)
So I have all these posts floating around in my head, but contrary to what the level of my Facebook activity would indicate, I do get a bit of work done at work every day, and I find myself unable to slot the 45 uninterrupted minutes needed to bang out a decent-sized post into a workday. And there’s no internet when I get home, so I can’t post there. And I don’t like writing posts on Word and then Pressing them onto the blog later on. It doesn’t feel right. It’d be like writing a love letter in Times New Roman.
Anyway, I do have some updates for you loyal subjects of PerakathLand. A sort of State of the Union address, except it’s not an address, it’s a post, and PerakathLand isn’t a union, it’s a dictatorship, bitches:
> I got a raise last month. A fairly substantial raise. An out-of-turn, whopping, unexpected, unsolicited, raise. It’s partly a strategic and tactical move to keep me from seeking employment at a higher-paying firm, I’m sure, but it’s also partly an appreciation of the quality of my work and it felt good to be rewarded so. I now make double what the two people immediately senior to me make, so I’ve been asked to be discreet about it. So keep mum for me, would you now?
> I don’t hate Madras as I did when I first moved here. It’ll never be completely suited for me, with its heat and humidity and hordes of two-wheelers and narrow roads and ridiculous attitudes to booze and overall small-city feel. But it does have its plus points. The bookshops here kick Delhi’s ass to Leh and beyond. While I know a startlingly small number of people here, I’m glad that those people are around. Living just a few hours’ drive from your parents (as opposed to a few hours’ flight) does have distinct advantages, mostly in the form of precooked dinner meat, free furniture from home, and access to all the family cars. (And their company, yes, of course.)
> I don’t miss Delhi as I did when I first moved here. Back then it was the raw, almost physical initial hurt of an unwanted breakup or loss, when you’re trying to reconcile yourself to the fact that you’re no longer going to have that person in your life as you once did and loved to. Now too I picture myself driving (always driving or riding, in Delhi) on the Ring Road by the Red Fort, down Mathura Road or Khel Gaon on the way to Saket; swinging into my usual spot near 4S in the Def Col parking lot; waiting to turn right at the University metro station signal; zipping up the Ridge Road on the way back from Dhaula Kuan; the long, long drive to Gurgaon on the National Highway or through Mehrauli. I picture Kamla Nagar at Diwali; the shifting locations of the McDonald’s there. Connaught Place in the winter. Snuggled under the quilt in my room. Goodness, I miss the city like hell. But it’s a good kind of missing. The kind of memory you have about an ex you no longer blame or feel bad about. Happiness that it existed.
> I’m going to London on work this weekend. It’s a pretty big deal, in that international commercial arbitrations are generally few and far between in an Indian lawyer’s career. And one under the aegis (I hate that word; don’t even know what it really means, but all the newspapers use it and it seems to fit!) of the ICC’s International Court of Arbitration is about as big-league as an arbitration can get. So it’s a big plus on my CV, and even otherwise the experience I’m gaining is quite invaluable. Cross-examination of witnesses! Who does that any more? It’s the stuff of American novels. (The witnesses are American, actually. From Bawston, Massachusetts, and Greenville, South Carolyna. Bwahaha. Being Indians exposed to Hollywood and satellite tv, we understand their speech perfectly. I doubt they could say the same about us!)
> I went for a close friend’s wedding last month. I didn’t feel like writing about it when I got home, but at the same time I wanted to record the occasion for posterity. Eventually work pressure got the better of the post, and I never even began it. It was fun, though. I went with a bunch of people from school. It was a big wedding, very large, and being classmates of the bride we were well taken care of. Kerala is a fucking sweaty place, but I managed to hide it all under a blazer, drawing a fair number of comments along the way. I got drunk one afternoon and slept through the night-before party, where I was supposed to be acting in a skit we put up as entertainment. That was a very strange bout of drunkenness, I must say. It crept up on me very gradually, and I went from feeling completely sober to not being able to walk straight. I fell down a number of times, and clearly remember lying motionless and in pain on the bathroom floor for a couple of minutes. Photographic evidence the next day showed me that I somehow broke the toilet seat, and left the bathroom phone (it was a hotel) inside the toilet water. Goodness. The two male friends with me managed to dress me up and dragged me along to the dinner venue (thanks guys!), where I passed out on a chair at the back, shielded from view by strategically-placed bodies. Fuckin’ hell. I woke up at 4 the next morning and felt terrible– not hungover, but terrible that I missed the event after having gone all the way there. I’ll never have any memories of that night now. Only 1 of my friends had ever seen me so drunk before, and I think some of my class girls were a little shocked. But thankfully, so I’m told, I wasn’t an annoying drunk– I didn’t hit on anyone (much), I didn’t say anything rude or stupid, and I didn’t DO anything very stupid. Apart from informing some occupants sharing the hotel lift that: “No no, we live on the ground floor.” In the lobby?
> Do hotels ever have rooms on the ground floor? I can’t remember ever having seen one.
Posted by Perakath 
Posted by Perakath 
Posted by Perakath 
