I was reading someone’s blog the other day. She wrote about
her sudden sadness in her usual, painstaking style. I mean it was such an
accurate picture that quite paradoxically it lifted my mood. So I am not the
only one with this ‘disease’. Sadness is a weird thing. It roams about in our
premises like a stealthy cat. Sometimes you catch glimpse of its tail, brushing
past your window pane. Sometimes you see it sitting on the rooftop of your neighbour’s
house. You feel reassured. Ok it’s there. Safe and sound. But not too close
either. And even though you are not so fond of cats, you still keep out food
for it. You may not love it but you feel for it. After all it’s a familiar
face. And you find comfort in its indifferent presence.
I don’t feel much sad these days. Or maybe I do, but I hardly
notice it anymore. The neighbourhood cat is always there, whether I see it or
not. Worst part is, when it sneaks into the kitchen and steals food. On some
mornings when I open my eyes and consciousness begins to creep back in, life
looks painted in such terribly depressing dull grey that I just want to go back
to sleep. But that piece of consciousness starts to hammer into my brain and a
dull throbbing slowly spreads through my whole body. You can’t fall asleep when
your innards are wrenching themselves in a crazy whirlpool. Tears begin to roll
down from my half sleepy eyes, seeping through my messy hair, wetting the
pillow. The cat is no longer on neighbour’s rooftop. It is now in my room. It slowly climbs onto the bed, sits on my tummy, and purrs. It has not only stolen
my favourite piece of fish but it has contaminated the whole pot.
Earlier when I would be hit by such sudden surge of sadness I
would feel mortified. As if it would never end; the cat would never leave. Now I
no longer freak out. I have simply stopped giving fuck. I have embraced my
doomed fate. Now it’s an open challenge. Come and get me, demon. Take me home. I
have given it up LONG BACK. On any normal day at home I wake up feeling
super-charged by the OCD in me. There would be no sign of the cat; only dust
and creases which I have to sort out at once or the world will end. Until
yesterday I was fine. I woke up. Ate a huge bowl of fruit salad. Read a book. Cooked
yoghurt fish curry with rice. Cleaned the house. Then from afternoon onwards
the clouds came back. By the time I was going to sleep they were looming over
my head ominously. I knew today was going to suck. Now I am sitting on the floor. My
freshly laminated poster of Hannibal is staring back at me. “I think I’ll eat
your heart.” Please do sir. It is a rotten, bleeding, useless piece of flesh anyway.
There’s an advantage of living alone. No one is there to see
you cry or hear you uttering cuss words at seven per sixty seconds rate. No one
will ask you to haul your ass and eat proper meal. You know you are going to
eat ten cookies for breakfast. Then a cup of ice-cream for lunch. Three huge
mugs of tea in the evening. (I no longer booze.) And two packets of instant
noodles for dinner. Nobody will ask you to take shower. You can sit there
looking like a zombie whole day. You don’t give a fuck. Nobody gives a fuck. It’s
just you and the cat now. And you know this from your heart by now – even if the last
soul on earth leaves your sorry ass to fend for yourself, your cat will always
be there, by your side.
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