Monsoon Miracle

Wednesday, July 24, 2019

Sometime this week, a colleague asked me to shut the hell up about the Retrograde. It's not the first time, and probably won't be the last, however, I find it easy to pass the blame about everything on the blowing up of the planetary positions. Never mind, science or logic (that I actually fucking studied in college, thank you very much). Truth be told, she invoked my PhD card and told me that it's embarrassing to be speaking about and expected to be taken seriously given my line of work (academia!). Who the hell wants to take a babbling researcher seriously who's pinning all possible issues on a fucking planet (again, why aren't too many people doing this beats me).

Apparently, no one takes this seriously. This in a country when we have a designated astrological column in the newspaper.

This afternoon, Mia K had called to tell me she's alive, a fact I'd resigned to believe otherwise. Her dog- Ziggy- chewed up her phone charger and she had to survive the weekend on 10% battery, naturally ignoring every single IM and call that was made, including mine. A part of me was convinced this is a sabbatical, or as people in the city call it Sawan. Motherfucking Sawan. Keeping my notoriety regarding the dates and months, I tried convincing her that it all made sense cause the retrograde affects technology and communication, and her dog chewing up her phone's charger was all of Mercury being a bad bitch in her life. 

"Yeah, tying all the problems in a bouquet and blaming it on the Retrograde or Modi is how we're surviving this year." my colleague added her two bits, before letting me sulk in isolation. 

Perhaps, it's not the Retrograde, and it's just us that's fucking us over. Perhaps, it is just the poor decision to study social science in this economic climate. Or maybe, just being born in this country and not doing anything about leaving this place. If it doesn't rain in Jaipur by next week, the city is facing drought. This is real. As is Chennai not having any water. Not one single person in Delhi seems to be bothered that we're six months short of facing acute water shortage in this capital. We're running out of natural resources; we're being lead as a nation by a team of buffoons; instead, we are trying to ignore everything and keeping it together. 

I guess, I'll never know how people do it. Part of my anxiety and depression stems from the fact that I've failed as a citizen to do anything about anything despite having spent an awfully long time in a social science degree collection endeavour that started a decade ago. That I've failed to the degree that I couldn't even get myself out of this mess, let alone help anyone with it. Everyone around me seems to have a thing keeping them going. I have nothing, and nobody. 

However, going back to looking at how eventful July usually has been, I'm just going to take the blame and pass it to the damn Mercury. 

Let's see, 24 July was the same fucking date I met my best friend in college a decade ago. Three years later, I graduated today after having topped the final year at Delhi University. I also made it to an institution where I stopped to do a Master's degree on today's date. Never mind, that Master's degree changed the course of my life and I spent all my time since doing cinema. Last year, I got the visa to go to London on this date. 

Since morning, I was hoping for a miracle. Anything. An unexpected letter, a friend to show up in the city, a life-changing opportunity, a billionaire aunt dying, old delivery from Ali Express that hasn't shown up in 3 months, trip to Thailand, trip to anyfuckingwhere...pretty much anything to take place. 

By lunch, I'd gotten myself two desserts in the absence of a fucking miracle. Who the hell wants some joy viz a vis people returning to the city or even INR 3 crore when you can have a cup of Vanilla ice cream? 

Me. Mostly cause I wanted French Vanilla cup and after having repeated that six whole times to the same colleague, she bought regular Vanilla. 

Gotta say, I'm absolutely blessed with people in life who will go an extra mile to fuck all my food and beverage preferences no matter what.

You must know that one cake story from my birthday in 2018. If you don't, stay tuned.

The one in London, where my friend baked a cake, and ate it himself cause he didn't feel like coming to the party in the evening. I found myself scouting for a fucking cake along with my other friends at 10 pm at Tesco's. Nevermind the dude who was supposed to be my date for the night, showed up with a bag full of tubes of toothpaste for himself, and not a single cupcake for me. 

If that doesn't get any better then I returned to my parents denying a birthday. 

"You weren't in the country for your birthday. Why do you want to do it now?"

Jeez, mom, I don't know. Maybe because I was actually presenting a fucking paper at Cambridge on my fucking birthday and I spent the majority of my day alone, eating alone and drinking alone in a town that shuts at 8 pm. 

My sister took pity on me and decided to do one better. I wanted one specific chocolate cake slice from an overpriced bakery in the city. I explained about 24 times about the cake, the slice, the description - everything. She returned with a fuckall mousse cake. 

There's no such thing called a mousse cake. It's a fucking half kilo mousse set like a cake, and was presented to me. My family made no effort to even pretend like they fucked up. You celebrated your birthday in the UK was repeated all evening. 

This story somehow takes a worse turn when a date in Delhi decided to "fix" the birthday, by taking me to the café that does the same fucking cake slice; only to make me pay for it and eat half the fucking slice himself claiming it's his birthday month as well.
(on a side note, people in this city truly deserve to die a parched death.)

Somehow, since the mousse cake fiasco of 2018, every fucked up food order seems like a blessing. It's only helped me get used to the fact that I'm cursed to get all my food orders wrong, ever. 

Much like I'm cursed to go down in the next three years. I don't forsee returning to employable life after this gig, given this city isn't going to survive the next couple of years. 

2019 is rotten, but I expected some fucking miracle today. Heck, I got to know I was not going to be in town for my birthday last year today and that was worth it all. It's something that I read today, appreciate the fact that this is the best worst year that's in line of the next few coming towards us. 

Keeping that merriment, I'm going to stop sulking about life being ordinary, and food orders being fucked left right and centre, and naturally stop blaming it on the fucking retrograde cause I'm a fucking PhD in making and I can't act like a normie from South Delhi. 

Instead, let me blame my anger, grief, rage, betrayal, and isolation, all on my fucking PMS. 

How has it been a month already since it last happened? Why is my PMS so fucking bad that I have to sit in the cramped washroom at work and cry my eyes out until I realize my interns must think I've IBS? 

Can't blame it on Modi or Mercury. 

Genetics, perhaps? 

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