I was put on medication for feeling too often a feeling that lies somewhere between anxiety and panic. I refused to do anything normal-life-like after that, I didn’t see the point. No breakfast, no laundry, no writing on Instagram. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” I lost the ability to heat milk, put clothes in the washing machine, and craft posts about whatever crosses my mind. What suffered in the interim was the documentation of major life events for the benefit of the future Alzheimer-affected Prachi or the obsessed-over-the-past great-grandchildren of my sisters.
I vowed today to start doing normal life things, under the whiff of energy lent to me by a cancer-ridden aunt telling me to not worry, because “shit happens”. What is adulthood if not going on with eating cornflakes, worrying about Trump in the face of anxiety and cancer? And to make up for my fault of “not talking to me over Instagram like you used to” I am getting the universe updated on the past 12 weeks.
Biggest first, I got visiting cards ‘Prachi Bhutada – Design researcher’ from the office (the only legit way of declaring someone’s adulthood other than having a baby), I gave 25496 of them away to just family right after I was done happy dancing all over the office while shrieking like a whale. I got licked on the neck by a puppy in a pet shop. I got sent cupcakes. Thrice. I got slept on the right foot, while eating a cheese tomato sandwich and reading a book in the perfect sun, by a stray dog. (More) people my age got married/babies. I, on the other hand, took a trip to Varanasi where I got scolded by a Sadhu, clicked an awkward photo of by a photographer, missed a flight, and did not drink bhang. I bought second-hand books by the kilo in Delhi and convinced my parents to get a puppy. I was made a caricature and sent more cupcakes to. I heard children laugh very hard after being peek-a-boo-ed on the staircase. I ate honey and almond cornflakes in a coffee mug at the office, heard a child say “15 years of existence does that to you, yo”, got a text message from an uncle I met on the train 2 years ago.
I lost my thought diary and worried if it has reached Dubai with a stranger who will read my thoughts and come down to find me. I worried about him thinking my thoughts. I got an irreversible/incurable cold from a colleague, who I sneeze on in a hope of giving it right back. I started using the word ‘colleague’. I went to Mahabaleshwar and found a waterfall that I must trek to and bathe in. I ate golgappa, aalo paratha, chole bature and gajar ka halwa in Delhi. I ticked 5 things off on the list of ‘things to eat in places far away.’ I made a list of lists I should make:
- High points
- Low points
- Movies and books that made me cry
- My favorite sounds and smells
- …
I lived without any cash in my wallet for a month, felt cool for being alive in an important part of future-history ‘demonetization by N. Modi, 2016’, got stranded on a highway at 2 am and survived, unassaulted. Sat on a train for 21 hours. Twice. Survived. Froze nose off on railway stations waiting for a train. Cried on the ghats of Banaras. DID NOT DRINK BHANG. Found Narial-pani flavored candy and had a “hamare jamane mein toh..” moment, bought a cream the smell of which I am obsessed with…
I have made my point. Right now, I write from the position of a responsible caretaker of baby cousins, one of whom sings Jingle bells while baking a cake, and the other talks about the death of Sherlock Holmes while playing table tennis with the door. I write from a real home with a real home mess, a fridge full of food, a junk food drawer, swings in the balcony in the perfect Sunday sun with the perfect Sunday sounds of children playing Heads Up while discussing crushes, and a TV playing The Truman’s Show in the other room
*starts making a list of favorite sounds*