New Home

I moved to my new flat quite some time back. And yet, I haven’t posted anything about it. Reason? As one of my favourite bloggers once pointed out that in some Bengali pseudo-intellectual, gay (I’m not a homophobe but the bastard once gave a full interview denying his sexual orientation and I AM a hypocritephobe.) director’s movie every coming-of-age character gets to furnish their new apartment right after receiving their first pay-cheque that too with kitschy, branded items. And here I am; living in a real world – even with a good salary it takes time here to furnish a whole 2 BHK apartment.

When I had first come to inspect the available flats this one was love at first sight. Its balcony opens up to a view where on a sunny day I can actually see the minutiae of the vegetation on the hills spread like the perky chest of some proud woman. And I can also see the Kanchenjunga from my bedroom window. However the entire place was in a pitiable condition. Every nooks and crannies was covered in two inches of dust. Wiring was fried. Floorboards were crackling under feet. I am not going to lie. The first and the most important things were taken care of by few people who had offered their help so graciously. So when my apartment was getting rewired, carpeted and semi-cleaned, I was getting my ass whipped back in Calcutta at the annual meeting. But still a lot was yet to be taken care of. And I was not at all upset about it. I am a little girl beneath my hardened exterior; I like to be taken care of. But then there comes the wild centaur, driven by the king of gods. It’s proud, it’s independent. It knows how to sacrifice love and security when the price is freedom. I didn’t sleep much for a whole week after coming back. I was cleaning. I was cleaning every last speck of dirt from my new home. I was bringing it back to life after years of solitude. I had to get a tetanus shot for the numerous cuts and scrapes I had garnered in the process. One evening after that I was dragging a huge bag of grocery with my sore arm while adjusting the umbrella with the good arm and thinking how Economics had philosophical angle to it. Everything comes at a price. This was the price of independence. Which I had chosen myself. I didn’t feel sad I swear. Philosophy should never make one sad. I laugh out loud every time I find a philosophical angle to mundane things in life.

I had never had a place to myself where I was the queen. The high-command. I know I craved it. I craved it more than a man’s presence in my life. And finally I had it. I don’t bask in the glory of my male family members’ profession or money. Everything I do is on my own money. Nothing in my house is expensive. But everything is firsthand and chosen with great care. None of my best friends or my parents has visited me yet though. Sometimes I look around and think of that Pablo Neruda poem. "So I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache." Sometimes I sit and try to picture my mother’s face when she will see it all. The dismay. The disapproval. What a waste of money. You are never coming back to Calcutta then. You will die all alone, just like your grandmother. Surrounded by your fancy curtains and books and that humongous ego; just like her…

Honestly? I have no idea. I don’t know how to see the future. And I don’t even want to. There’s no fun knowing in advance what lies ahead. I prefer to enjoy the ride. I may or may not die a spinster, but I know I will not be a bitter, old woman regretting her life choices. Sad is not my thing. I am someone who takes melancholy between her palms and conjures butterflies out of it. Lots and lots of butterflies. And my eyes sparkle when they flutter around. Death is pretty much absolute. You become unfuckwithable after that happens. I am happy as long as I am alive here to see how the morning sun glisten through my cheery yellow curtains, making my room look like a small piece of paradise. I don't care what happens beyond that.