Sunrise in Delhi

Wake up time: 5,30 in B2/131. Driving back. A chill in the breeze. Sunrise after weeks! Beautiful red orange over a vast patch of shrubs and trees, behind multistoreyed glass buildings and ahead, right above the unfinished flyovers.

Monday Blues

Am working in Delhi with a client of TW in an enablement exercise. But right this instant, I desparately wish I didn't have to go back more than ever now, I have started to dislike mondays and the flights to Delhi.

Quick Choice

The last weekend activities consisted of clearing up the house of a lot of old papers, books, clothes and toys. In the event of either me or my sibling expressing a sentiment to preserve the aforesaid articles of childhood value, my mother frowned and a dispute followed. Most such disputes were settled when my mother threated to go and sit outside of the house, forcing us to make a choice between the garbage and herself.

Disability and usability

Had been ill last week and bought a couple of medicines for relief. This included some throat drops, cough syrup and tetrapacked juices.

The throat drops were packed in some sturdy plastic armour. Twisting and tearing didn't help. Nor did biting. So one had to sit up, grope for sharp edged tools to carry out operation. Most unhelpful. Not something that can be done with eyes closed.

Let's see what of the cough syrup. It was Benadryl. As it is, the patient is a weak person. To add to that, the seal was hard to break off and took a lot of coercing with cutting edge technology like knife and scissor-tip. The fingers got completely bruised and cut. So after dealing with cold and cough, one has to use Boroplus to tend to one's injuries.

Yes, the tetrapacked juices were alright, but not the packaging of the accompanying straws. Not very amiable sort. Most reluctant to slip out of packaging even at the pointed end which could reputedly pierce. Therefore, one ended up drinking directly from the tetra pack. Result: The neighbouring ants and cockroaches also joined in the party.

Saleswoman at my door

It has been raining all morning and all afternoon. I have been sitting at my computer downloading all kinds of important software after lunch. I am even looking at the websites of various property developers in Bangalore. Then all of a sudden ding dong dong. I look through the peephole. A tired looking woman. I open the door. One of those sales people, I tell myself and reluctantly open. Now this time she is selling some handicrafts from Calcutta. I cheerfully tell her that I don't want anything. The last time I gave in to a door salesman was several weeks ago, for a little boy who came selling pappads. He probably was doing his first round. When he rang the doorbell, I could not even see anybody. He was not even waist high. And he was nearly in tears that I didn't want pappads. I melted immediately. He said his mother had made them. I quickly gave him ten rupees for a packet of pappads. His sweet face brightened up and dabbed the note on both his eyes in a mark of reverence to the day's first earning. Then he looked at me - with an expression that easily beat a thousand thank you-s he may have said. Anyway, I don't want to be a softie this time, despite getting convinced that she was the breadwinner for her disabled husband and that I am like a daughter to her. I insist that I have no need for TV covers and that I don't own a television. She gives up after a while. Picks up her two bags and walks out the gate with a bend, owing to the weight of her wares and towards the bell of the opposite house. I watch her for a second wondering thinking I have done okay in not taking anything from her. I close the door. The rain is pouring down heavily and the smell of the wet earth drifts in along with me as I latch it shut.