Life, or something close to it

Vida é uma festa – that’s Portuguese for life is a party. When I was relatively younger, and subjecting both Portuguese and Spanish languages to battering by my hamming in those two languages, I used to spout this phrase quite frequently. Not because I actually believed in it – heck no, am not a man of many, or rather any, convictions. I just thought it looked cool to speak a few words of a European language, especially one that didn’t have too many takers.

Living alone in a new city can alter one’s life perspective, and in such a scenario, vida certainly n’est pas uma festa. Okay, I made a khichdi of two European languages, but I am assuming it’s been comprehended.

Getting up in the morning, around 5 am, doing the cooking and cleaning and then getting ready for work, coming home in the dead of the night and then cooking dinner – it certainly is a life of most housewives. In fact, was chatting with a single parent, who revealed that before she had her child, her daily routine began at 5 am and ended at 10:30 pm.

One thing I have found out over the past two months – this kind of routine is bloody tiring. And yet, most of us men take this for granted from our women folk. Renting out a small 1BHK apartment, I had rosy notions of being able to manage it on my own, maid be damned. Well, the maid is damned for sure, which has been mentioned in an earlier post. But the cooking-cleaning-washing routine, oh yes, the ironing routine too, has left me sleepy-eyed most of the days.

But it has its moments too – like the perfect dahi (curd) set at home. Or the damn good chana masala with rice, which were bloody good, so much that I had them two days in a row.

But after that, then what? Wiping the last of the washed utensils after dinner, one is reminded of the fact that there’re only walls to talk to. Sleep too comes late into the night, which means that one can’t escape into slumberland at will.

Sometimes, you imagine someone would knock or ring a bell, even if it’s the garbage man. At least there would be some form of humanity to speak with. Had he been literate, am sure I would have even bounced off my ideas on him.

But hey, what the heck am I complaining about! Have never been a big talker all through my life. The art of small talk and polite conversation is something I could never grasp in all these years. Part of the reason why I quit the hospitality industry, but as I am finding out, these days, you are judged not by how much substance you have, but how much faff you can muster.

PS: Judge me for who I am, even if what I say gives you a sense of déjà vu!!

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