So I come back from yet another day of work, and it’s high time I was asleep, but a demon deep inside me doesn’t let me go to bed. Because I know, when I wake up, it’ll be time to chop, iron, put the rice on, try and bring the hall to a reasonable state so you can say it is young women who live in this house and not three-year-old kids- gosh, I never knew I could sound so housewifely!
I’ve hardly been reading enough. What do you do when your eyelids are drooping on the train on the way to work, on the train on the way home from work (and after you’ve been up all night, trying to knock some sense into the heads of people with unreasonable demands, who seem to have made it the sole purpose of their lives to confound you when you’re more sure than you ever were in your life- oh well, they atleast keep me from falling asleep at work!), and at home, you’re walking through the rooms like a zombie, knowing not where you’re going and what you’re doing? Okay, I admit I exaggerate. And that I’m making excuses. For someone who really wants to read would do so at any cost. Where has my determination gone? Oh help! It’s been stolen.
The worst part of the night shift is working on Friday nights. When the normal, sensible human being is putting his feet up on the sofa and laughing his head off at an outrageously silly movie, or getting ready for a night out with friends, or simply going to bed early with dreams of a pleasant weekend, some poor souls make their long and arduous way to office, to wrangle and wrestle with issues of a mysterious, other-worldly nature.
I wish we hadn’t outgrown cowrie shells as currency. Or better still, given up the barter system. Civilisation, pooh! I wonder at these impossible amounts of money changing hands, churning around the globe, belonging to nobody in particular- what is the point, after all? It really doesn’t make much sense to me. No money, no recession, no worries. How peaceful life would be!
And now, while the sane part of the world gets ready for lunch, I’m going to bed. Oh well, atleast half a world away, there are people who are in bed as well. Or in the flat across the street, where the lights are always on at night, and you can see the colours of the television, just like in ours. Sweet dreams, then!
PS: I write at the risk of sounding like a four-year-old who doesn’t know what money means and how hard it is to come by, or how people kill and sin for it; but it is true, I never have understood why it should be of so much consequence in anybody’s life.