I had been long waiting for this week. Not that I
don’t suffer from Monday blues, infact I have been suffering blues for each day
of the week. But this week was going to be different, because come weekend and I
was going to head for home sweet home. The ‘Good Friday’ holiday meant almost
all the ‘outsiders’ had planned a home-coming. I stretched it more by taking
off the entire following week. Yeah, it was going to be a 10 day vacation for
me. The very thought of going to Goa has instilled some kind of energy into my
soul.
Others too have not gone without noticing the
change in me. May be I was just floating in air.
Not that my project had any priority tasks or any
releases lined up in this week, but getting a leave sanctioned was always
supposed to be a Herculean tasks. Probably that might be one of the KRA for our
managers to try to dissuade his sub-ordinates for taking days off. Somewhere
deep within myself, I felt good too because this was the only time I felt I am
needed. In reality I knew it for sure that me going on a week long leave, or
for that matter even longer sabbatical, wont cause a iota of difference to the
project. After much cajoling, that also included a couple of pegs of whiskey; I
was able to get a week leave granted for me.
.
.
.
.
.
.
So Thursday afternoon after getting up from my
siesta, I thought of skipping office. Not that I would call in sick or neither
would I increment my leave count. I planned to swipe in and out of the office
on my way to the railway station. Was confident enough that nobody would notice
my absence, as it is hardly anyone notices my presence in office during other
days.
Pumped up enough with the thought of ‘Fish Curry
Rice’ and other mom made delicacies, I dashed to the bathroom for a quick bath.
More than a refreshing bath, it was the thought of getting rid of facial hair
that had propelled me. The absence of strictures in most of the IT firms, as
far as formal dressing and looks were concerned, had made life easy for many
lazy bumps like me. We hardly had any visual interaction with our overseas
client and that only meant the keratin cells in my body would have a field
day…rather field week …errr… field month. Shaving had at best become a
bi-weekly activity, which quiet often stretched on to be a monthly ritual. But
heading home I could have hardly afforded to lets the lose locks cover my face
or the long beard make look like a medieval sage. For I feared my parents would
even fail to recognise me and turn me away from the doorstep, at best with some
alms. Worst still, even if they recognise me there was quite a good chance of
my mom not letting me in until I have a close trim. In the past, irritated and
frustrated of asking me to shave, she has refused to serve me food until I had
one.
Not ready to risk any further delay for
experiencing the homely ambience, I went about searching for the razor. Not
recollecting what it looked like, I had to spend triple the time it should have
taken for a regular. A thought of sporting a French beard just grazed through
which I instantly discarded for a clean look. After struggling to run the blunt
edges of the razor for a few times over the stubborn growth of hair, I was
pleased to see the face from behind the veil of foam. Yet another time, I
pledged to myself that I would be shaving on daily basis, very well knowing
that the pledge wont stand for more than the day as it has been the case for
the few times in the past when I had a clean shave. Applying the musk
after-shave lotion from the nearly full bottle which I had bought when I set
out of home three years back, I wondered whether it’s past its expiry date.
I dragged myself under the shower and let the body
soak as I stayed still, hoping deep within me that someone would from behind
the mist and massage my body with an relaxant. Seeing no such miracle happening
I self-helped myself with the act and rushed out in a towel. The most dreaded
task awaited me. This is probably the only thing of returning back home that I
disliked, ‘packing my bag’. It’s so different from the journey way round, when
mom used to take care of the activity and placing the creased shirts and tees
nicely one on top of other. That following week is the one wherein I go to the
office the best dressed, until I exhaust the entire lot of clothes ironed by
mom. I wondered how I would have survived, if not for the casual attire
permitted at my workplace. Cutting back to the task at hand, I started
sprangling to all edges of my apartment to collect whatever I could lay my
hands upon. From under the teepoy, from over the bed, those hanging on the
ropes to those dumped at the corner.
I stuffed everything in my backpack, a part of
missionware that we got every diwali. Adoring these goodies gifted by my
company, be it T-shirt, or the bag, or the wind-cheater with the prominent logo
flashed onto it always made me feel like a guinea-pig under test. Only solace
was seeing many such guinea pigs wherever you went. On the local, at the
restaurant, at the mall, together looking like a part of a heard ear-marked to
be butchered.
“Goa, here I come” I voiced it spontaneously as I
left my apartment.
As I enthusiastically trudged down the stairs, I
recollected I had to ping at office on the way.
“Damn! Got to get my card alongwith.” I said to
myself.
U-turned as zoomed back into and out of my
apartment in a giffy.
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