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My office is on the first floor of a residential society. I leave work everyday at roughly 8 pm, dinner time fast approaching in all homes. As I’m descending the staircase, the society is lit up by fragrances of food being cooked in most kitchens. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, and I’m thrown back in time:
As a kid, my curfew was 8:30 pm and everyday, except Sundays, I would go down and play with my friends. Those evenings full of games and jokes were what we lived for. But by 8:30 pm sharp, I was back home, tired and muddy, and I’d make my way straight to the kitchen where my mother would be cooking dinner. I would sniff the air around her and guess what she was making that night. It was a game we played, mother and son. I was quite good at guessing too. My mother would then shoo me off to the bathroom to clean up. After I was done, we’d sit before the TV, watching whatever was on back in those days and have a hot dinner together.
Now, after work, at 8:30 pm I return back home, sometimes to an empty house. I write a little in my journal, a snapshot of my day or thoughts, take out the cold salad sitting ready for me in the fridge, boil a few eggs and call it a dinner while watching some youtube videos.
Akshay G. has grown into a bit of grouch. It only gets worse as the years progress.
