It is a typical rainy night in Lavale. The kind which depresses
you, fuels your poetic side, or simply makes you want to curl up in bed with a
book. But mostly it just makes you want to sleep. A lot. I have been listening
to Amit Trivedi’s music, and it has a balming, dreamy effect which goes along
perfectly with this weather. Sometimes I go to the city just because I get
excited I will get to hear my music on the bus, and view the green hills and
feel the wind and ponder about life.
I am writing after ages. It feels
weird, now that so much time has passed, and so much has happened. My roommate,
Possum, (as I would refer to her. Other names include: Thumbelina and Oompa Loompa) has gone to Mangalore to meet her grand mom
and cousins. Not surprisingly, I am missing the small bump that her tiny body
makes under her blanket, and the way her legs take up only half the bed.
Shifting in with her is one of the best decisions I’ve made in this college so
far. I thought I wanted someone sincere as a roommate so that I
would be motivated to be like her. Or maybe someone serious and nerdy so that
her ‘qualities’ would rub off on me. I was wrong. By the end of the second semester, I was ready to
settle with absolutely anyone who would be willing to adjust to my random
outbursts and idiosyncrasies, and that too I would have kept to a minimum. But
I ended up living with someone just like me. Well, almost like me.
It’s awesome. Not only does she complement my insanity, she supplements it. When I make noises, she makes
louder noises. When I make faces, she copies me with gusto. When I laugh at
something, she laughs harder. She floods my Facebook wall with the silliest of
posts. She has cookies running through her blood stream, and each time she
opens an Oreo packet, she squeaks a loud and clear “Cookie?!” and when I say
no, she looks at me incredulously as if she cannot believe a person can ever
turn down a thing so divine. She’s not exactly the “Oh-share-your-woes-with-me-I’m-here-for-you”
type, but she cares, in her own little retarded ways.
She gives me the most awkward pelvic hugs when I surprise her with a chicken shwarma roll from Casa Lolo. She
starts jumping up and down like a mad woman when I play N Sync or Avril. She loves my
South Indian version of “Baby Got back”. Our rendition of “Su kar mere mann ko” gets crazier
and louder with each passing day. We laugh at each other and with each other
every night, the reasons are not important (and should better remain untold).
She cackles so loudly that she invites neighbours to knock on our doors asking
what happened with genuine concern. Now they are quite used to it. She gives me
death threats when I do something she hates, (God save you if she’s irritated) but
then assaults me physically and later explains it was supposed to be a hug. She
lets me put my earrings on her earring stand and lets me wear her tomatoes,
while she wears my flowers. She gives me those asinine Cookie monster smiles when I offer to do something for her. 