Suboptimal living

I blinked back at the fan rotating above me.

You could say that I was awake. I would say

that I was still clutched by sleep. I yawned,

resisting the day that had come to take me.

All this while, the fan pushed the air.

It kept at it, whether I noticed it or not.

I would notice it if it stopped. If it did stop,

my attention would diverge midway to find

my wife, trying one ploy after another

to rouse me out of bed. I would grunt back,

acknowledging her impatience and,

this predictable urgency that mornings create.

 

Nothing of that sort happened, of course.

The three blades kept chasing each other,

so I lay there, watching them play.

I would notice the fan if it grunted too.

That noise that makes you think- what if

it would just snap off the ceiling and fall on you?

Would it drop down heavily or

would it leave a swift, clean cut on me?

Nothing of that sort happened, of course.

My wife would have had me repair it. She worries

about such things while I hope for it.

I did notice, however, a tiny spot of white paint

at the edge of one blade. It danced in circles

at that stupid speed. It just kept at it.

Monotonously. Involuntarily. Happily?

 

One complete rotation, now.

And now. And now. And now. And now. And now.

 

–

 

The birds chirped to remind me that the darkness

outside wasn’t night. It was still early morning.

Moaning. Mourning. No, morning. Yes, mornings
that lazily cast its shadows in our apartment,

coaxing me to reach out for the light

switch. Click.

“Illuminate!”, I ordered the tubelight.

And so it did.

My wife, who was racing time in the kitchen,

peeked in curiously. I grinned back at her,

making light of my unprovoked strangeness.

We rushed through the things to do today,

the day after and a week later.

I reassured her they may or may not happen

just how it did or did not happen

like the day before and the week prior.

I assured her that I would try my best

to not be jealous of the electronic devices in our house,

those wretched things that don’t have to

jot down a list of things-to-do or

complain like I need to do.

Switch on. Awake. Switch off. Asleep.

Roused only by serendipitous electricity.

No will. No want. No will to not want.

Well..

Nothing of that sort happened, of course.

I was busy being whipped by busier routine.

 

–

 

I’d rather be an efficient robot

with gears that work because of non-optional, set principles.

I’d not have to decide to get up, every bubbly day.

I’d not have to create drafts until it was pretend-perfect.

I’d not be contemplating on things that don’t even matter..

I’d not have to sip my tea myself.

I sipped some tea myself, letting it warm my throat.

My wife sipped her tea calmly at the window sill,

watching the world awake, five floors below.

We had a few serene minutes before we left

to join the bustling, bright day while that sparrow

could sit perched at the window grill.

 

The very moment, I thought that thought

that meek bird jumped

just to guilt me. It jumped- no, believe me,

without spreading its wings, it dropped itself in the air

out of spite, as if I drove it to suicide.

But it had swooped back up in time to my wife’s delight.

‘That’s not the proper way to fly!’

‘Proper?’

‘Usual, I mean.’

‘Why would you want to fly the “proper, usual” way?’

she said, making bunnies in the air with her slender fingers.

I had a retort, I swear to you, but it abandoned me

leaving me quiet and my wife satisfied.

Of course, things of this sort happen.

 

–

 

It was time to leave for the day.

I turned to call the lift.

while the ignored staircase looked at me.

I stared back at it, imagining

myself sliding swift

down the railing.

The lift announced its arrival as I stepped on

a better thought.

I let the metal box close and

efficiently carry me down.

‘It is a good day’, I decided,

‘At least I’m not as sad as I used to be.‘