(Marathi saying)
I feel a bit rusty as I write this. It has been so long since I held a pen to write something. I guess the last time I held it for this long was while filling the forms on joining date. It has been over six months. The notepad.txt is always there for me to scribble. I’m re-discovering the joy of writing my thoughts. It’s the first time I’m writing a blog on a paper. I look at the pen and I think of its loyalty. I think of numerous things like that; the pencil box, the scooter and so on. The handwriting doesn’t belong to me, I think.
The newspaper boy was fired long ago for skipping Sundays and a weekday every fortnight. The Business Line (BL) being the only paper I read, I had to search entire Bangalore for it. This was what I did on Sundays. The problem is Economic Times (ET) is costlier than BL on Sundays while on weekdays and Saturday it is twice that of ET. Every Sunday I went about BL hunting entire Koramangala. Each time it was a new shop. We don’t have newspaper stands as we have in Mumbai. Newspaper is mostly found with the nukkad panwalla.
This Sunday was no different. I couldn’t find BL. I felt like a parasite with no paper. I was on my way back home. It was tiresome. I was heart broken. I was thinking of some divine intervention to make BL available. I felt it was a conspiracy; that the entire cosmos was against me. I saw a lady selling flowers. I felt like offering some to Lord. I stopped for a moment and I thought I said no to myself. I moved a few steps further and I turned back straight towards the lady. I took some flowers. No longer was I about to turn than I asked her for a newspaper. She smiled (as if she was involved in the conspiracy) and pointed to a shop on the other side of the road. Mission fateh. I thanked Lord.
No comments:
Post a Comment