Prose before hos

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Nearly an hour late into the 'one drink only' evening, I found myself sitting alone for another 15. The person was running late. 

He walked into the bar, empty-handed. 

"Where's the book?

"I forgot. How about you collect it from my place on your way out?"

Sure, okay. 

No surprises there; on that one drink turning to many drinks, and some shots and maybe some food that I can't quite remember. It also turned into texts from my friends demanding my whereabouts and some missed calls from my family. 

At some point, I recall getting a look from the server, asking to behave myself. The lesser said the better about my drunken, tired self. Ofcourse, in hindsight, it seemed all too shady. 

At some other point, I found myself walking to this person's house for the best (comic) book and another memorabilia I'd been nudging him for.

This should be, what, midnight? Nearly six hours since the plan and four hours since we met. The details are hazy but I remember in vignettes in colours. How well lit the neighbourhood was and how chilly the evening turned out and how I should have eaten something instead of drinking on an empty stomach. 

Now since we have a policy of not kissing and telling, what happened next is censored. Largely also cause I remember in hazy bits; the highlight of which was a frantic call from my family checking on my whereabouts. 

I allegedly told them I'd be home by 2 am. 

At 2 am, I'm reminded by this person, "your mom had called. You're supposed to be home by 2."

That's when it hit me. 

HOLY FUCK, DID I DRINK THROUGH AN EVENING OF PLANS AND THINGS I HAD TO DO INCLUDING SLEEPOVER AT ANOTHER FRIEND'S. 

The answer to my emotions in the upper-case is yes. Yes, I'd had one too many drinks and I had work the next morning. I was in a neighbourhood, far away from my house, in chilly December, and nobody had any idea. Especially not the people I was supposed to meet that evening after only one drink. 

"What should I do? Should I head home"

"Yeah, I don't know. Just do whatever."

That person was visibly short and irritated. I think I'd be too if I found another person ask me that question especially when all I wanted to do was sleep. 

Actually, let's no go to what I'd be and what it was probably gonna be. It has to be worse than my imagination. 

I decided to crash the night and leave in the morning. Because, baby it's cold outside. 

After a ceremonious start to the day, early next morning, I landed back at mine. About three hours and a splitting headache later, I found my family seething in anger. 

"IF YOU WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH PEOPLE WHY DON'T YOU GET MARRIED AND HAVE AS MUCH SEX."

Wait-wait-wait-woah-woah-woah. 

Calm down. No, really. Marriage? Sex? 

This was the first time in all these years I heard my parents mention marriage. 

Not only I was hungover beyond belief but scandalized at the idea that "having sex" is something we're discussing over the first cup of coffee. 

I was caught off-guard and I might have made the matter worse by laughing. The idea that "having sex" with someone is basically something you can do only if you stay out all night cracked me up. 

If you ask me, there are far worse things to do at night. Talking to someone and laying yourself open is far worse. In an equal amount, talking and sharing your idiosyncrasies or talking idly or just about forging a connection. 

I don't know, so many things came to my mind and all I wanted was lots of water and coffee. And a bed to catch up on sleep. Actually, I just needed my bed and 12 hours of uninterrupted sleep. My sensibilities were on 10 miles an hour and I knew as much; if my cab doesn't show up in ten, I'll be late for work but woah-woah-woah easy on sex. I just went for the book. 

The book!

I came back to mine without the bloody book. After all that and more and then some more, how could I forget to take the fucking book. The worst part was that there was no sex and there was no book. What's the opposite of win-win again? Yeah, that. 

It hit me as I was in a yelling match with my family. All of this started with the wretched book. The fact is, about two weeks in this conversation of the best book, I didn't have the fucking book. I was nowhere close to it. 

I got out of the house, told myself I'd get the damn book before Christmas and vowed to order first thing at work. 

Naturally, the universe didn't cooperate. 

I wrote to my contact, an old friend, a senior editor at the publishing house that is responsible for the distribution of this best book in India. 

"...is it possible for you to help me purchase a copy and avail the discount?" 

I got an automated response in no time. The editor was on leave until the end of the year. 

Well, fuck my luck.  

I checked the availability of the book online. The first thing I learned about the book other than being expensive is that there was no way in hell, I could get my hands on in it before the next fortnight. Which meant, it'd be past Christmas. 

Between Christmas and the yearly book shopping time at the World Book Fair, it would be a week. If I've waited this long, what's another week. 

But the book, and Christmas, and reading in bed? And then proceeding to finish the damn TV series between Christmas and New Year's Eve?

I convinced myself, it's okay. It's fine. I can live without the book until January. 

On 29th December, a friend and I went to a film. It was our second night in a row of catching up on the films we'd missed and since we'd reached the mall slightly early, we decided to hang around in the bookstore. I mentioned the best book ever to him, and he told me, it was true. He also offered to lend me his copy except the copy was back at his hometown. 

Don't worry, I'll get it from the bookstore here.

I decided to fuck my discount and get the bloody book. However, the universe had other plans. 

"Ma'am we're out of the stock. It'll come back by second week of January."

I thanked and exited. You've got to be shitting me, right now. I thought of ordering online again as we walked to the theatre. But that would mean, I'd risk paying more because I can potentially get the book from the Book Fair. 

Book Fair means I'd actually meet the editor friend and request her for an old-time employee (me!) discount. A whopping 50 percent on all hardcover, paperbacks, and the rest. 

On 30th December, my arm was twice it's size with rash and stiffness. I was at a sleepover with friends and in massive discomfort. 

I had also not been home in a long time so there was that added sense of, "well fuck. I'm unwell now."

On 31st December, the doctor I'd casually gone to see for my arm (thrice it's size, completely stiff and unmovable) had asked me to get hospitalized that very minute. He'd mumbled something serious, amputate and the condition being extremely serious and it being all wait and watch the situation. 

Before midnight, at 9 pm, I found myself on Amazon with one functional arm which was swollen with multiple needles and reactions to the antibiotics they were trying on my arm. 

I found a seller willing to deliver the book at a somewhat discounted price in 10 days. 

10 days would mean that if I did survive this bullshit, I could actually read this book. My physical condition wasn't positive and it didn't look like I'd be hitting the Book Fair at all. 

On the third day in the hospital, I called the same bookstore's other outlet to check on the book's availability. Turns out they did have it, except at double the price. 

Did I want to read the book before my arm got amputated? Yes. 
Was I willing to wait for a cheaper deal? Also, yes. 

I thanked and hung up. Decided to wait another week. 

On the sixth day, I got a mail telling me the packet has been dispatched. 

On the tenth day, there was no news of the package. 

I'd safely made it back home and was resting for the most part. My cousin was designated to get married in two week's and I had pending shopping, pending office work and the insatiable urge to get my hands on the fucking book. 

It wasn't even about reading at that point as much as it was about getting the fucking book. 

It took me three days to chase and get on multiple calls and send repeated emails to understand that the seller registered with Amazon had sent no fucking packet with the book. The book was costly and the price displayed in the store was ridiculously cheap. He/she possibly realized so after the order, and instead of fulfilling it, inserted a random number of the package. 

When I traced the package with the number, the courier company informed me that no such number exists and their tracking numbers are completely different.

At this point, it had been two months into this book fuckfest. I made money, I earned a salary, I had one too many drinks with the person, and then I nearly lost an arm. How is it that I couldn't get a copy of the best book ever but everything else was happening just fine? 

I told myself, this book and I aren't meant to be and decided to move on. 

On the last day of the Book Fair (that corresponded with my last day of bed rest), I had chores to run and was in the other part of the city. Some shenanigans with my cousins, including the one who was to get married. They were insisting on my sibling and me to stay until I cited work and she, some other excuse. We got out and stopped for a pitstop midway. After the snack, I told her to proceed home without me. 

I took an auto straight to the Book Fair. Some rituals are meant for a lifetime. If I had survived a situation with my arm and I was to live, I'd get back to my ritual. This was my first trip out in nearly two weeks and an infected arm. I had been advised to not get out of my way to exert any pressure, especially on the arm. 

And yet, I found myself at the World Book Fair in Delhi on the last day. A Sunday. Fucking hell. 

I proceeded to make my way to the distributor's stall. The cell phone reception was poor and I'd been trying to reach out to my friend for the discount. Inside the hall, there were massive queues just to enter that specific distributor's stall. 

After a patient 15 minute long queue, I was in. 

It took me another 5 to locate the copy of the book. Hidden under a pile of children's books, this was supposedly the last copy and I couldn't be more thrilled. 

After picking some more books and basically ensuring my fucked arm to be fucked some more, I was frantic. I had little money designated to spend and without the discount, this entire stash would be upward of 10k. 

I tried my best to locate someone, anyone, who knew where my friend would be but to no avail. I struck up a conversation with an acquaintance who feigns ignorance in entirety each time he sees me and explained the situation. He apologized and said he can't help me. 

At this point, I was tired and feeling groggy. I had overexerted myself and carrying those hardcovers hadn't made it easy. The serpentinite queue to the cashier was daunting. I stood there, hoping for a miracle.

I saw another salesperson, this time, I approached with a strategy. 

"Hi, do you happen to know XXX?"

"Yeah, why? Do you need something?"

I explained the situation to him. How I'd been an ex-employee and how XXX always helps me with the discount and how I was unable to reach out to her. 

He walked to the front of the queue with my pile and instructed the cashier to give me the discount I'd been dying for. 

Twenty minutes later, I owned a copy of the best (comic) book ever written. 

It's been exactly seven months since I came into the possession of the book and I'm pleased to tell you, I've no idea where it is. 

You see, in my excitement, I got the bags out and stored it safely. Safe enough for me to read after the wedding and then a work trip. In between that and the corona bit, I lost the track of where exactly did I keep the book. 

I'd say I'm excited to find it but that would mean another two-part story and I don't know if anyone here is up for it again. 

Sometime in March, I believe, I wrote about the first trimester. I could have fucking waited a month and called it a quarter but the genius that I am, decided to jump at the first instinct. Either way, this is Quarter 2's report. I'm pleased to say everything that was looking up in the last post is now down the dumps.

Also, please stop reading posts from 2008. They exist so I can be grounded about how terribly I used to write. And perhaps, still, do.

For reference, this is the "First Trimester" report. To enjoy *this* piece, highly recommend that you read the last report before you proceed with this.

Taking forward from where I left, I am no longer moping.
Well, I couldn't, in the last quarter, cause I was busy fighting severe anxiety. Cause? People who won the elections were the trigger. Each time, I'd read the news or watch the same, I'd be down being catatonic. Imagine, those guys coming to power in full majority. I mean, you don't have to imagine cause that's exactly what happened.

Anti-depressants are just as bad as Dementors. I think I deserve a round of applause for basically surviving the hell-whole the medication was. I finally understand why they celebrate folks who have fought depression/anxiety/mental illness'. This shit sucks and how.

I'd like to think I got out of the funk, that had taken over me sometime last year, during my trip to Bangkok. This couldn't have happened without P breathing down my neck each day at work, just checking on me whether I'm doing okay. I lucked out there.

Speaking of work, I quit my job. What was the center of attention in my life, and perhaps the only thing working out. I signed out for good, and well, I'm hoping it leads to better things. It was a difficult transition, one that resulted in a big change.

The change, you ask, is that I got a drink.
Fine, I got half a bottle of whiskey with an old friend who may or may not have helped me quit my job. I'm terrified that I might be enabling his narcissism if I give him any more credit on that. But, it was a lot of alcohol for someone who resisted alcohol for a little over half the year.
Following that, I got a bottle of beer and then some more with my old bass teacher, who has blocked memories of me sucking at playing the bass. Thank the lord for that.
I'd like to think there's been no looking back but I can count the total number of occasions during which I've had alcohol. Four. Each and every sip was worth it. Quality over quantity, baby.

I would also not beat myself up for alcohol because I think I needed it the morning after I found out that I got dropped from the book deal I got. Apparently, things didn't work out. Things such as my writing. I'd like to take a moment and acknowledge the WhatsApp I received earlier in the day when I got rejected, "I liked you better when you could write."
Me too, buddy. Me too. I liked myself better when I could.

On the bright side, I have a fantastic new rejection story along with the one where I got rejected from Fulbright Fellowship. My letters of interest from four different universities are a total waste. It's been a delightful month, really.

Lest we forget, credit where credit is due. Gotta thank Cuddle Boy for talking me into trying for Fulbright. He really seemed to believe in me, more than I did at the time. Nobody has ever looked at me with such conviction and asked me to pursue academia. Ofcourse, my friends would like to think it was a way of getting in my pants. Well, about that...

Safe to say, Cuddle Boy and I are a thing of last quarter. We parted ways amicably since he decided to be in a committed relationship with someone else. The fact that he talked it out and gave the notice to withdraw his services is well appreciated, to the point it should be normal but we don't get that normalcy in Delhi. Do we?

On other fronts, I've gained a total of 10 kilos back. My diet is at an all-time fail. I've nothing, nobody to blame for it but me.

It's also my birthday in about two weeks or so and I'm fucking off to Thailand again! Well, hoping to, since my connecting flight is in about an hour and I've to do visa-on-arrival at the first airport so pray for me, my non-refundable hotel bookings, my bank balance (which is really a thing to worry about in the absence of it being employed), my body weight and also my sister who's joining me on a trip after 3 whole years. Could have found a Tinder match and ruined my life for the next two years but oh well. We did that last year. Can't repeat our mistakes in under 365 days.

I no longer know how to write or what to write or what to even write on. Keeping that in mind, I'm doing a report of a sort. Everyone likes reports. Corporates pay dumbfucks all the fucking time and professionals in the creative fields who are hired by these corporates are forced to do the same. Everyone has to report. Well, mostly everyone.

I got published! Double spread byline in a leading national daily on a subject dear to my heart. It got a decent amount of appreciation. I was stoked because why the fuck not. Finally managed to channel my rage of losing someone important into writing.

I also got a publisher. A leading academic publisher in the UK decided to take our collaborative research project on board. If all goes well, or well, according to plan, I'll be published in a book in 2020. This is subject to if I survive to write that paper.

We lost a cat. In a freak road accident, some motherfucker killed our stray and left her kitten orphaned at our door. She's a total doll but isn't fond of me. I try to cuddle the fuck out of her but she won't let me. Consent is kinda real, she wins.

To make up for the lack of cuddling a cat, I found a human who permitted me to cuddle him and vice versa. Our transactional relationship is the stuff of dreams. There is hygiene, respect, consent, and cuddling. If you hear of someone starting subscription package to cuddling people during difficult times and seasons, hit me up. The mofo stole my idea.

I got a raise at work. Which was scheduled to happen last Summer but I won't crib. It happened is all, and I was relieved because the intimation for a meeting seemed ominous. Either that or I was overthinking the fuck about where to stay in Bangkok. A conversation for another day (aka never).

I have been waking up for the most part of days spent in the barsati to a nightmare. Of how I booked myself to go to Thailand (last minute- as always) and how absolutely uncomfortable I am with the idea, that even in my dream I start panicking, trying to cancel, only to find myself in the Baht Bus while the alarm rings. Waking up in a cocktail of drool and sweat is disgusting.

I gained four kilos of weight. It's the only thing weighing me down. I am sorry. 

I survived three months without a drop of alcohol. Instead, I spent those calories on pizza, patties, kachodis. Basically, starting next month, I'm probably going back to alcohol. It was a shit decision. In 2018, I had pizza grand total of 3 times. In this trimester, I had pizza 4 times. I don't even fucking like pizza.

My mum started retailing some of her specialty food. She's down to treating the city with the best of Summer and Winter fermented food. It's been phenomenal with people reaching out placing orders with us doing bare minimum marketing. It's pretty much the only reason I survived January with a straight face.

I lost people close to me because it wasn't working out. For the sake of my mental well being, for the sake of my self-respect, and possibly for the sake of there being no love, respect or admiration from their side to me. It's okay. Shit happens. Worse things have happened and I've gotten out. These are just people, who are like furniture to my existence, just like I am to theirs.

It's easier to cut people out than to get over them. I wish someone had prepared me for that. No amount of resilience and pep talk can withstand the grief of losing people who meant something to you. Every commendable achievement or listing above is a testament of what I did in the face of grief to get out. Every unwritten post and writing here is a sign that I'm not past this and I am down the dumps.

I give myself three more trimesters to get past this funk. If it doesn't happen then we'll know something is wrong with me beyond normal, acceptable level of wrong.

90 days into this year: me.