It is one of those days -- do-not-feel-like working days -- that is. One of those days when you feel happy for no reason really. Maybe it's the Fifth Avenue perfume which I have dabbed a bit too generously, the new cord skirt or the new hair style...But it's good to feel good.
Because I have not been having a good time recently. Like, I met a shooter who was so grim that I thought I was weird. Till date, I don't think I have met any one like him, even though he happened to be quite a young gun, only 23. I almost quailed when I had to ask him about his 'wife'. Actually I made the usual gaffe -- I pointed out to a huge portrait asking him if he was married when he had an are-you-kidding-me look on his face. "Do I look like that to you?" he said sounding offended. Apparently the groom in it was said shooter's brother-in-law and shooter's wife.
And shooter was stinking rich. His bungalow itself was like a palace, tastefully decorated with mini bars, huge fireplaces, wooden floors and the works. But somehow he depressed me beyond reason. During the entire course of our chat, not once did a glimmer of a smile cross his countenance.
The day after that I was supposed to meet another shooter at the Tughlaqabad shooting range. The photographer was supposed to pick me up at 10 am. The interview time was settled at 11.15 am with the shooter. And I have never messed up interview timings. It's almost a credibility thing you know. Anyway, the photographer reached my place at 11 am.
When I got into the car and asked him the reason, he gave me the lamest of all -- traffic! On top of that he said defensively that he might have been 15 minutes late in getting out of his place. So what? Apparently, it is the done thing to be 10-15 minutes late. I had a row with him and I could feel myself shaking with rage. So I just shut up, turned my face away and gave him the coldest treatment I have ever given to any body in my life.
Then the other day I was on my way back from an art exhibition and I just couldn't fnd an auto rickshaw anywhere. When I finally found one, he drove me mad. Even when we had agreed on an amount, that seemed pretty unreasonable but then I just wanted to get home, he refused to switch on the meter. I wanted to check how much it would actually come to. Not that I would pay him less. But he asked me, "Will you pay me if it comes to more?" Finally when I couldn't take it anymore, I bit out coldly: "Meter chalana parega. Aur sar mat chatiye," to which he said in an amazed tone: "Achcha aisi baat hai?" To which I didn't bother to reply. I stuck my ear plugs in. As we reached my place, I realised that I had been had (I was going to pay him way more). It irritated me beyond reason. For the rest of the evening, I was feeling weepy.
I wish I could have borrowed the second shooter's double barrel gun and returned it after finishing off all auto wallahs!
Put together more little incidents like my gym shutting down forever and you have the summation of them is what I have been feeling like for the past two weeks. I am sure my blood pressure must have been abnormally high. I could almost feel it.
The only highlight of the period was a tiny thing -- watching a film. It was the day I watched 'A Wedding Date' on Star Movies. My sms date that night was former flatmate E. She in Bombay and I in Delhi, sipping on our wines and lighting up candles while drooling on Dermot Mulroney. Oh was it nice!