Monday, November 5, 2012

Chinna-Chinna Aasai

Another blank HR form for some firm that wouldn't shortlist me thanks to my abysmal academic credentials in college lay staring at me; not really begging to be filled straightaway. Despite the multitude of things to be done on my things-to-do list (making one such list was on my things-to-do list; this is an infinite mirror loop), Parkinson’s law usually puts paid to the hope of doing anything substantial until last-minute panic takes over. Yet, as I scrolled down perfunctorily, a question the likes of which I had seen before when  scrolling down perfunctorily, caught my eye. 

“Please paste page 221 from your 300-page autobiography.”

While what I wrote in said moment of last-minute panic was some far-fetched story of changing the face of Indian sport and selling a few colas while at it, all I could really think of was the following murder of sensible literature.

They weren't exactly sofas per se. Cushions met at the corner of the room, making a cosy L-shape. The wall-sized windows above opened to hazy winter sunlight. Curled up in a quilt, next to the morning’s mutilated newspaper whose Sudoku had been finished in less time than it took to make the tea in the mug next to the aforementioned paper, I neatly took off the plastic covers, smelled the familiar scent of a paperback, and lost myself.

Remember that bit about living for your dream and a pocketful of gold? I'm yet to find that silver lining.

1 comment:

nisha chandramoorthy said...

Everyone has a couple of Chinna Chinna Aasais and all, but then, when you think that them being unfulfilled is really sad, things do a lot worse.
If you are whiny about how you can't curl up and read in bed just because of an 8 am elective, you realize, on going grumpily, that there is a surprise quiz waiting.

And what HR form now? Don't you have another year to go?