| 'Time' Series: Book One |
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The workings of her brain were a mystery to her own pneuma.
That's what Hinduja Rao always thought.
But, quite similar to her thoughts about her own self, was someone else around her.
Her newly wedded husband, the...
So, when I started my job hunt in the first semester itself, in order to spare the price of my hostel and mess fee and also my day-to-day expenditure, I got through the face-to-face interrogations with my supposed employers without much scrutiny. I work two part-time jobs after university now, first as a waiter and dishwasher for a community bakery and then as the tuition teacher to a bunch of four-foot-something twelve-year-old nutcases, all of whom dream about studying at the same mental asylum I wreck my overly-brilliant brain every day at.
And this makes me discover another mind-blowing fact about my personality: I HATE children.
After paying the mess and hostel fees this month, I only had air to pass out from the wallet inside my pants pocket. But getting my laptop repaired was a really important need of mine as well, for that godforsaken device contained the only three pictures of her that I had captured from my DSLR camera two years ago, the last time I saw her.
So, having no other alternative on hand, I was compelled to avail myself of the extremely 'costumer-friendly' services of Gundeshwar 'the-Watermelon-head' Trichipelli. Rumors say that half of that man's body fat is stored around his head and face, which I know is biologically not possible.
I always muse if little Miss Pigtails has grown taller, if her wavy black hair has grown longer, or if her facial features have gone through certain transformations in the course of the last two years. Does she still scratch her head like a lice-infested monkey in case she comes across a question whose solution she is unable to get through? And most importantly, does she still sit under that same Gulmohar tree—the one she used to sit under every afternoon two years ago?
I hope she does.
A lot of things have changed in me in the last two years. I am about to enter my third year of university. I have learned to bargain with the local street vendors. I have learned to value each and every penny that I earn. I have learned to shop for my clothes at the town flea market at reasonably cheap prices after growing out of the branded outfits I was once accustomed to. Most importantly, I have learned to adjust to my parents' blatant lack of interest in my life.
But one thing that still remains unchanged at the core of my heart is the fact that—I miss her.
And I want to see her.
Desperately.
Just this afternoon, I called Karim to inquire about the Gulmohar tree growing in the grove behind the manor. Dear diary, I have a really gladdening piece of news to share with you. Karim said that my Gulmohar tree might experience its first blooming season exactly two years later since it has grown from a seed and not from cuttings.
Happy news.
Signing Off,
Dev. D
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