It's already four months since i came to Dahod, and I’m proud to announce that , I, for the first time ever, am living in my own house. King of the castle. Master of the domain. Walker in the nude.
You get the idea.
I’m lucky because I got a big Government bungalow in Dahod. My office is just down the road, which means I no longer have to spend hours in a local like those of metro cities, my nose buried in some stranger’s armpit (I prefer the armpits of people I know).
Certainly being in a remote rural place have its own advantages, metro lifestyle is not conducive to pursue any hobby. Well, duh. That’s like saying the Vatican isn’t conducive to abortions. A typical day in Metro involves braving a swarm of armpits in train compartments that even the Gestapo would’ve considered inhumane, with the rest of your time spent at a job that you hate from the bottom of your cholesterol-laden heart, but you dare not quit, because you need to pay the rent for an apartment the size of my friend's handbag.
Apart from that i don't know anybody in Dahod, so i have to develop ‘My Network’. This is a common Bachelor thing, wherein you have a bunch of guys to do everything you’re too busy to do – finish the laundry, buy groceries, repair stuff, please your dog – everything. As of now, I know a guy who knows a guy who knows other guys, so it’s all going to be good.
This sudden availability of free time is most welcome, because as it turns out, living on your own involves a lot of work. Contrary to expectation, life is not like an episode of Friends. Or wait… it is like Friends, except that I’m Monica and I have to cook, clean, scrub, decorate, host and to make things worse, my domestic help looks nothing like Jennifer Aniston (although it would be creepy if he did)
Now there are many things in life that I’m good at, like writing, dancing, performing, and having serious conversations with women about haircare. But cooking has never been my forte. However, I braved it out (after being tormented by tasteless Gujarati cuisine) in the kitchen recently, learning to whip up tasty and healthy South Indian meals. Hah no, I’m kidding. My body composition is now 80% Chicken and 20% MTR Chicken Masala.
And there is a very good reason for my lack of real-world skills; it’s called The Indian Mother.
That’s right, because we Indian boys are the most mollycoddled and dependent species on the planet, possibly ahead of Norman Bates. In all my time at home, I never lifted a finger – not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t have to. Indian mothers will pamper their sons all the way into adulthood, resting only once they’ve made them Prime Minister.
On the upside, things like storage and decoration become a lot easier if you’re a man. For example, I don’t have a cupboard, but using only my masculine skills and bare hands, I’ve managed to create a fantastic garment-storage structure, technically known as ‘a pile of clothes’. Over time, this pile has evolved into an entire ecosystem and although I cannot be sure, I think some Bangladeshis have sneaked in and set up home there.
As far as decor goes, i’ve used a minimalistic theme for the drawing room, because I have no money to buy extravagant furniture. It’s nearly bare, like a dinner table at the Hazare house. This emptiness inspires two very different reactions, described below.
Female Friends: Ooh, big empty room. We can decorate it with fairy lights, and new cushions and curtains and carpets and sofas and fabric – OHMYGOD I AM SO TURNED ON RIGHT NOW!
Guy Friends: Ooh, big empty room. We can play underarm cricket here. And this floor will be great for that spin thing I learnt in the 3rd standard – OHMYGOD I AM SO TURNED ON RIGHT NOW!
. And if things get a bit too overwhelming, I’m calling Mommy.
I’m lucky because I got a big Government bungalow in Dahod. My office is just down the road, which means I no longer have to spend hours in a local like those of metro cities, my nose buried in some stranger’s armpit (I prefer the armpits of people I know).
Certainly being in a remote rural place have its own advantages, metro lifestyle is not conducive to pursue any hobby. Well, duh. That’s like saying the Vatican isn’t conducive to abortions. A typical day in Metro involves braving a swarm of armpits in train compartments that even the Gestapo would’ve considered inhumane, with the rest of your time spent at a job that you hate from the bottom of your cholesterol-laden heart, but you dare not quit, because you need to pay the rent for an apartment the size of my friend's handbag.
Apart from that i don't know anybody in Dahod, so i have to develop ‘My Network’. This is a common Bachelor thing, wherein you have a bunch of guys to do everything you’re too busy to do – finish the laundry, buy groceries, repair stuff, please your dog – everything. As of now, I know a guy who knows a guy who knows other guys, so it’s all going to be good.
This sudden availability of free time is most welcome, because as it turns out, living on your own involves a lot of work. Contrary to expectation, life is not like an episode of Friends. Or wait… it is like Friends, except that I’m Monica and I have to cook, clean, scrub, decorate, host and to make things worse, my domestic help looks nothing like Jennifer Aniston (although it would be creepy if he did)
Now there are many things in life that I’m good at, like writing, dancing, performing, and having serious conversations with women about haircare. But cooking has never been my forte. However, I braved it out (after being tormented by tasteless Gujarati cuisine) in the kitchen recently, learning to whip up tasty and healthy South Indian meals. Hah no, I’m kidding. My body composition is now 80% Chicken and 20% MTR Chicken Masala.
And there is a very good reason for my lack of real-world skills; it’s called The Indian Mother.
That’s right, because we Indian boys are the most mollycoddled and dependent species on the planet, possibly ahead of Norman Bates. In all my time at home, I never lifted a finger – not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t have to. Indian mothers will pamper their sons all the way into adulthood, resting only once they’ve made them Prime Minister.
On the upside, things like storage and decoration become a lot easier if you’re a man. For example, I don’t have a cupboard, but using only my masculine skills and bare hands, I’ve managed to create a fantastic garment-storage structure, technically known as ‘a pile of clothes’. Over time, this pile has evolved into an entire ecosystem and although I cannot be sure, I think some Bangladeshis have sneaked in and set up home there.
As far as decor goes, i’ve used a minimalistic theme for the drawing room, because I have no money to buy extravagant furniture. It’s nearly bare, like a dinner table at the Hazare house. This emptiness inspires two very different reactions, described below.
Female Friends: Ooh, big empty room. We can decorate it with fairy lights, and new cushions and curtains and carpets and sofas and fabric – OHMYGOD I AM SO TURNED ON RIGHT NOW!
Guy Friends: Ooh, big empty room. We can play underarm cricket here. And this floor will be great for that spin thing I learnt in the 3rd standard – OHMYGOD I AM SO TURNED ON RIGHT NOW!
. And if things get a bit too overwhelming, I’m calling Mommy.
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