कि ज़लीलों में बस जाएँ;
आग वो दूसरी कहती है,
कहीं फिर न तरस जाएँ.
Raham ko panah na denge ab,
ki zaleelon me bas jaayen;
Aag vo doosri kehti hai,
kahin phir na taras jaayen.
Showing posts with label ADayInTheLife. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ADayInTheLife. Show all posts
Manual
This is how I begin to fall in love:
it all starts with walking
with him,
in a sparse moonlight
and scarely more drizzle,
some ganja, some music,
and small steps.
Little things.
This is how I hold back:
walking three feet asunder
while he asks,
'Do you know what is going to happen?'
This is how I fall out of love (a):
a phone call from you, far away,
telling the story of a storm and a Jewish house in Boxburg
where you stayed a night, and read Camus.
This is how I fall out of love (b):
a couple of folk musicians from Shantiniketan,
friends of friends,
staying up all night to the sound of khomuk and dotaara.
This is how I fall back in love:
the sound of your voice in my ear,
— unmediated by head phone, ear phone, mobile phone —
and your hand in mine,
your knee under the table,
your laugh like a child’s.
Looking at you,
just looking.
Absent little things.
This is how I live.
And when you tell me you are going to travel
some more this summer,
and
“Backpacking across Europe!” I say,
And you say, “I have to buy a backpack, actually.”
I forget all else and laugh full and loud.
This is how I survive the distance.
Out of Print
When a long lifetime was ending she woke up
to find all his words
tacked to the crumbling walls,
and all in different languages, none of which she spoke.
They were paper cut-outs,
some sepia, some gold,
some interminably old.
Others light, carefree, new, in a sense —
but like newspaper clippings of Godefroy’s flight,
were dated to long ago.
Some also, were eaten by moths in slow degrees,
she could peer through the holes they left.
The cut-outs were in the shape of children,
airplanes,
hot-air balloons,
books
and roots.
Can you imagine a paper cut-out that looks like a root?
It was the hardest to recognise.
She had collected them herself,
What for? she asked,
and since she was the only one around,
only she could answer.
The only thing one could make with old paper
(she mused,)
is papier mâché
from which to fashion boxes
to house,
undoubtedly,
more scraps.
She finally decided to consult an expert on these things,
Who did not have anything heartening to say.
She put all the scraps together in a neat, orderly manner
and showed them to him,
in order, perhaps, to ascertain their
worth.
All the valuer could come up with was
Madam, this language is out of print.
to find all his words
tacked to the crumbling walls,
and all in different languages, none of which she spoke.
They were paper cut-outs,
some sepia, some gold,
some interminably old.
Others light, carefree, new, in a sense —
but like newspaper clippings of Godefroy’s flight,
were dated to long ago.
Some also, were eaten by moths in slow degrees,
she could peer through the holes they left.
The cut-outs were in the shape of children,
airplanes,
hot-air balloons,
books
and roots.
Can you imagine a paper cut-out that looks like a root?
It was the hardest to recognise.
She had collected them herself,
What for? she asked,
and since she was the only one around,
only she could answer.
The only thing one could make with old paper
(she mused,)
is papier mâché
from which to fashion boxes
to house,
undoubtedly,
more scraps.
She finally decided to consult an expert on these things,
Who did not have anything heartening to say.
She put all the scraps together in a neat, orderly manner
and showed them to him,
in order, perhaps, to ascertain their
worth.
All the valuer could come up with was
Madam, this language is out of print.
A Day In The Life: Aprils and other days
Meeting an old friend
From here and there,
Unshared memories spill over
into cups of tea;
a cigarette and a half on the Tube:
Busker made a choice,
got arrested the night
Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.
Meeting an old friend,
No memories in common,
So much more to swap
Like casettes, before CDs
could be FedEx-ed across the oceans.
Meeting an old friend,
Pipe, hookah, shorts and corduroy,
Picking up the game of chess shelved years ago.
Meeting an old friend with a new friend,
A new friend with an old,
Taking manual photographs of
Fingers, hair, teeth, shoes.
No faces, only words.
From here and there,
Unshared memories spill over
into cups of tea;
a cigarette and a half on the Tube:
Busker made a choice,
got arrested the night
Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.
Meeting an old friend,
No memories in common,
So much more to swap
Like casettes, before CDs
could be FedEx-ed across the oceans.
Meeting an old friend,
Pipe, hookah, shorts and corduroy,
Picking up the game of chess shelved years ago.
Meeting an old friend with a new friend,
A new friend with an old,
Taking manual photographs of
Fingers, hair, teeth, shoes.
No faces, only words.
A Day In The Life: Late in the Evening
The stars lined up obligingly,
The moon sang a thousand tunes;
There is an old garden,
overrun with weeds
behind the place:
a retreat
further
than the old mansion itself is,
an anachronistic rift
in time, vantage point to
hide in, and watch in
secret the world
as it flits
away.
Hidden in pools of light, like ghosts
we wandered, precarious
footholds and crumbling walls.
Somebody lived here
Once, long ago
(Before you
and I
trespassed into their spectral home)
And had memories older
than us and ours, of hands
clasped and promises
made while looking
into the
moonlight.
We were not the first trespassers:
The city had crept up round
the house long ago,
by degrees, Metro
Rail being the last
to encroach
upon
The space that surrounds it, a space
where Ahmed Ali’s Delhi
breathes; where fear and desire
collude, and whisper
your dark secrets
back to you.
To you
And I, whose life is measured out
with coffee spoons, and looks like
it always will, unless
I find the courage
to see this place
demolished –
a dream
destroyed – the building is condemned,
Like the fate of the ghosts that
silhouette the skyline
on Barakhamba
Road, late in the evening,
sometimes.
The moon sang a thousand tunes;
There is an old garden,
overrun with weeds
behind the place:
a retreat
further
than the old mansion itself is,
an anachronistic rift
in time, vantage point to
hide in, and watch in
secret the world
as it flits
away.
Hidden in pools of light, like ghosts
we wandered, precarious
footholds and crumbling walls.
Somebody lived here
Once, long ago
(Before you
and I
trespassed into their spectral home)
And had memories older
than us and ours, of hands
clasped and promises
made while looking
into the
moonlight.
We were not the first trespassers:
The city had crept up round
the house long ago,
by degrees, Metro
Rail being the last
to encroach
upon
The space that surrounds it, a space
where Ahmed Ali’s Delhi
breathes; where fear and desire
collude, and whisper
your dark secrets
back to you.
To you
And I, whose life is measured out
with coffee spoons, and looks like
it always will, unless
I find the courage
to see this place
demolished –
a dream
destroyed – the building is condemned,
Like the fate of the ghosts that
silhouette the skyline
on Barakhamba
Road, late in the evening,
sometimes.
A Day In The Life: Moving - 2
My parents were married in August 1980. My grandfather was in Sudan just before that, the next posting in line for him was Srinagar. His boss told him,
Dekho, being a South Indian you may not want to live in Srinagar, but that is the only vacancy just now. Your son is to be married, you take leave for a few months. I’ll sanction three-four months leave for you.
After the marriage, Thatha was restless, and unused leave is encashable. So he went to Srinagar, with my grandmother and their two daughters, one of whom went to school there then, at Presentation Convent, and the other, who had a Masters degree by then, had nothing to do at home till come next posting (Cuttack, in Orissa) and joining a B.Ed. and then a teaching job.
Thatha had promised Patti (Dadi) that he would take her to Srinagar when he got back from abroad. It was inadvertently prophetic.
The bulk of their saamaan was on its way, by long, winding roads up mountains and down them again. They had some ten-odd suitcases, and stood around at the busstop;
Saab, houseboat? Houseboat? Haan, saamaan hum le lenge.
Before they found the bungalow they later moved into, they lived in a houseboat.
God knows where they got water from, Anyway there was one tap... There is an island in Dal Lake. We were parked near the island. We were going to a Gujarati place to eat; after a few days a Kashmiri woman started to come and make roti for us, cook for us, on the houseboat itself.
Yesterday I bought a book of Agha Shahid Ali’s poetry. For a change, I found a book I was looking for in one shot. Telling S, I find that a Kashmiri friend of his had discovered the poet a few years back, and was ecstatic by this find.
What is it that binds us to our roots? I feel a rush of oldworld pride when I say we are Palakkad Iyers, makes me feel like I belong to some ancient clan, older than living memory, older than time and place can say. I feel a tug, like the tug of a kitestring, when I am home, in Lucknow; to fly away and be tied down.
As I crossed a bridge today, on the way home
Flying over a sabji mandi
I spied a kite
Stuck flapping dustily
between two wires, power lines,
And below me a train flew into my line of vision.
Symbolism washed over me,
a wave to drown in;
Patang-baazi is this:
Being stuck gathering dust
between two strings.
Thatha spent ten days in Jammu once, long ago. The river, he says, is cold; it comes from the mountains, from frozen peaks. And Jammu is hot in the summer. This is what you do in summer in Jammu, he says; you sit on the riverbank, buy a mango or two (there will be people selling mangoes right there, just for you; and you can take the office car and go with the Assistant Engineer for company), wrap it in a handkerchief and toss it into the river.
Cold mango, hot day.
I don’t live in the part of the city, or inhabit the world of patang-baazi, kiteflying. I am an urbanista, it seems.
I opened a book of poetry by Anurag Mathur, of all people; having read only The Inscrutable Americans, I was curious.
It's not a new sentiment. In 2006 or 2007, I was writing:
Meanwhile, it doesn’t matter that much to me, in real terms where my family, “split establishment” lives, since I don’t live at home now anyway.
It's never a new sentiment; but a story only becomes your own when you've worn it for a while, broken it in, and had corns on your feet to remind you.
Dekho, being a South Indian you may not want to live in Srinagar, but that is the only vacancy just now. Your son is to be married, you take leave for a few months. I’ll sanction three-four months leave for you.
After the marriage, Thatha was restless, and unused leave is encashable. So he went to Srinagar, with my grandmother and their two daughters, one of whom went to school there then, at Presentation Convent, and the other, who had a Masters degree by then, had nothing to do at home till come next posting (Cuttack, in Orissa) and joining a B.Ed. and then a teaching job.
Thatha had promised Patti (Dadi) that he would take her to Srinagar when he got back from abroad. It was inadvertently prophetic.
The bulk of their saamaan was on its way, by long, winding roads up mountains and down them again. They had some ten-odd suitcases, and stood around at the busstop;
Saab, houseboat? Houseboat? Haan, saamaan hum le lenge.
Before they found the bungalow they later moved into, they lived in a houseboat.
God knows where they got water from, Anyway there was one tap... There is an island in Dal Lake. We were parked near the island. We were going to a Gujarati place to eat; after a few days a Kashmiri woman started to come and make roti for us, cook for us, on the houseboat itself.
Yesterday I bought a book of Agha Shahid Ali’s poetry. For a change, I found a book I was looking for in one shot. Telling S, I find that a Kashmiri friend of his had discovered the poet a few years back, and was ecstatic by this find.
What is it that binds us to our roots? I feel a rush of oldworld pride when I say we are Palakkad Iyers, makes me feel like I belong to some ancient clan, older than living memory, older than time and place can say. I feel a tug, like the tug of a kitestring, when I am home, in Lucknow; to fly away and be tied down.
As I crossed a bridge today, on the way home
Flying over a sabji mandi
I spied a kite
Stuck flapping dustily
between two wires, power lines,
And below me a train flew into my line of vision.
Symbolism washed over me,
a wave to drown in;
Patang-baazi is this:
Being stuck gathering dust
between two strings.
Thatha spent ten days in Jammu once, long ago. The river, he says, is cold; it comes from the mountains, from frozen peaks. And Jammu is hot in the summer. This is what you do in summer in Jammu, he says; you sit on the riverbank, buy a mango or two (there will be people selling mangoes right there, just for you; and you can take the office car and go with the Assistant Engineer for company), wrap it in a handkerchief and toss it into the river.
Cold mango, hot day.
I don’t live in the part of the city, or inhabit the world of patang-baazi, kiteflying. I am an urbanista, it seems.
I opened a book of poetry by Anurag Mathur, of all people; having read only The Inscrutable Americans, I was curious.
He who belongs everywhere,
Belongs, I fear, nowhere.
Where do I belong?
It's not a new sentiment. In 2006 or 2007, I was writing:
I belong everywhere
And so I belong nowhere.
Who am I?
Meanwhile, it doesn’t matter that much to me, in real terms where my family, “split establishment” lives, since I don’t live at home now anyway.
It's never a new sentiment; but a story only becomes your own when you've worn it for a while, broken it in, and had corns on your feet to remind you.
A Day In The Life: Moving - 1
It was 5° C in the morning today. I didn’t believe Appa when he told me, but then at 10:00 am the thermometer outside said 8°C and there was no denying it.
Yahin itni thand ho rahi hai toh Jammu hi na chale jaayen?
The transfer order was long due. We moved to Lucknow in 1996. The first posting that made Appa move away, and made us a “split establishment” (which is what Amma says when she’s talking about buying home-supplies, groceries) was a transfer to Ranikhet. Baba’s board exams that year. I was in Class 8, so close enough to my own first boards for the folks to not want the kids to change schools. That was in 2000.
Since then Appa has had a series of postings in Inspection and Management Audit, which made his travelling light even more spartan than usual. These were postings of a few months each, sometimes even a few weeks only, taking him upto Trivandrum and back as far north as Kufri; from Calcutta to Surat and everywhere in between.
Last Sunday, he had nothing to do. Rare, since when he’d come home between assignments there’d usually be some repairs or the other to be done, some pending doctor’s appointment of my grandfather to attend to, car insurance payments; the list is long. Last Sunday, he made lunch early, called the car, and took out one of the older model airplanes, a Cessna, to go flying.
Chalo, chalte hain.
He and I drove to Butchery Ground which is on the way to the airport; in between he says, pithily,
Hum yahaan ’82 se aa rahe hain. Yeh sab chhod ke kahin aur chale jaayen?
I was walking around in the mall yesterday, desperately looking for a familiar face. What does Lucknow still have that holds me, like a promise cracked already, about to be broken? There are no reasons, perhaps; at least none stronger than the irrational love that one can have for the smell of the fog.
Kohre ki khushbu, if you can call it that, I’m told.
The other day V came over. We started counting the years; with V now so much of the leap that my heart makes every time I see him (even days when I want to see no one, least of all someone like him, whom I can no longer talk to) is the sheer childish joy that comes from seeing a memory, alive. He counted up to 12, and we were suitably impressed with ourselves. I cannot talk to him like I can talk to my friends in the hostel, but this is of course stating the obvious. Even if our meetings are now a mixture of excavations into a shared past (which sentiment is turning apocryphal) and a floundering attempt to understand the divergent, alien present, my heart still leaps.
The long overdue transfer order has come;
Chandigarh Circle, it says.
Where in the circle? we ask.
Jammu.
Yahin itni thand ho rahi hai toh Jammu hi na chale jaayen?
The transfer order was long due. We moved to Lucknow in 1996. The first posting that made Appa move away, and made us a “split establishment” (which is what Amma says when she’s talking about buying home-supplies, groceries) was a transfer to Ranikhet. Baba’s board exams that year. I was in Class 8, so close enough to my own first boards for the folks to not want the kids to change schools. That was in 2000.
Since then Appa has had a series of postings in Inspection and Management Audit, which made his travelling light even more spartan than usual. These were postings of a few months each, sometimes even a few weeks only, taking him upto Trivandrum and back as far north as Kufri; from Calcutta to Surat and everywhere in between.
Last Sunday, he had nothing to do. Rare, since when he’d come home between assignments there’d usually be some repairs or the other to be done, some pending doctor’s appointment of my grandfather to attend to, car insurance payments; the list is long. Last Sunday, he made lunch early, called the car, and took out one of the older model airplanes, a Cessna, to go flying.
Chalo, chalte hain.
He and I drove to Butchery Ground which is on the way to the airport; in between he says, pithily,
Hum yahaan ’82 se aa rahe hain. Yeh sab chhod ke kahin aur chale jaayen?
I was walking around in the mall yesterday, desperately looking for a familiar face. What does Lucknow still have that holds me, like a promise cracked already, about to be broken? There are no reasons, perhaps; at least none stronger than the irrational love that one can have for the smell of the fog.
Kohre ki khushbu, if you can call it that, I’m told.
The other day V came over. We started counting the years; with V now so much of the leap that my heart makes every time I see him (even days when I want to see no one, least of all someone like him, whom I can no longer talk to) is the sheer childish joy that comes from seeing a memory, alive. He counted up to 12, and we were suitably impressed with ourselves. I cannot talk to him like I can talk to my friends in the hostel, but this is of course stating the obvious. Even if our meetings are now a mixture of excavations into a shared past (which sentiment is turning apocryphal) and a floundering attempt to understand the divergent, alien present, my heart still leaps.
The long overdue transfer order has come;
Chandigarh Circle, it says.
Where in the circle? we ask.
Jammu.
A Day in the Life: Bookshopping Sunday
I’m glad I got out; don’t care if I get worse. Stupid viral would just make me miserable if I stayed indoors all day today. This girl is really nice, but so lost in her own dreamworld. If I was just a little more lesbian I might be interested in her. I’m glad she doesn’t want to talk much either. We don’t know each other at all, come to think of it; but how could I say no:
- I’m going to Daryaganj, want to come?
- Oh. When? I’m not too well, I don’t know.
- About eleven. I don’t know, maybe just rest today.
- Ya, I don’t know.
Do you have company?
- No.
***
Oh shit where is this bus going. Come on. I’ve taken the same one before. Stops near that cinema theatre. Bang in the middle of the books. You pass booksbooksbooks, lining the street before the bus stops. Where is it all? Why on earth are we passing Rajghat?
Oh it’s the other end, is it. She’s least bothered. Good. She doesn’t care. Lovely. Dreamworld is good.
***
How desperate am I man. Daryaganj. No, I can’t buy clothes here. Not that Sarojini Nagar is much better. Bloody hell. She’s such a chhooimui type. She’ll think I’m some bum on the street if I buy clothes here.
- Hey, these look good…
- [YAY]
***
CHAI! Yes! O my god, just what I needed.
Do chai dena yaar. Mathri bachi hai?
I’m trying to blend.
She eats that thing, what is it called...Cheese twist or whatever. Yuck. That crispy thing that makes crumbs all over your clothes.
***
[There’s this distinctly chor-bazaar-ish display of goods at the end of the market.]
- Yeh kitne ka hai?
She wants to buy the fish-lamp. The plastic 80s art-deco piece of shit, a broken fish-tail lampshade. Weird.
- I don’t know you. You want to buy this thing, don’t you.
- Maybe when I have a house of my own.
***
I don’t even want to buy anything. So many books already waiting to be read...
***
- Emily Dickinson!
- You know, I had this thing for her once; you know she’s the kind of writer you pick up in the library and just end up reading on and on for hours...
- I know, same here...
- What’s that one, um...
“A word is dead...”
- “When it is said,
Some say. I say it just...”
- Begins to live
That day.”
***
- What’s that?
- I don’t know, go ask.
- Bhaiyya, yeh kya hai? [- Naankhataai]
- Really? Not like the ones I’ve eaten in Lucknow...
- Yeh kaise banta hai, Bhaiyya? [- Aapke saamne banaa to raha hoon Madam]
[He was making tiny bakery-biscuit sized cakes and heating them on a makeshift tandoor heated by coals on his tthela.
They were absolutely delicious.]
***
Jama Masjid ke liye Madam aap to galat side aa gayeen.
[Chhodo. Next time.]
***
Home, hungry, tired, more broke than before; back to hostel in time to catch leftover Maggi and tepid chai.
- I’m going to Daryaganj, want to come?
- Oh. When? I’m not too well, I don’t know.
- About eleven. I don’t know, maybe just rest today.
- Ya, I don’t know.
Do you have company?
- No.
***
Oh shit where is this bus going. Come on. I’ve taken the same one before. Stops near that cinema theatre. Bang in the middle of the books. You pass booksbooksbooks, lining the street before the bus stops. Where is it all? Why on earth are we passing Rajghat?
Oh it’s the other end, is it. She’s least bothered. Good. She doesn’t care. Lovely. Dreamworld is good.
***
How desperate am I man. Daryaganj. No, I can’t buy clothes here. Not that Sarojini Nagar is much better. Bloody hell. She’s such a chhooimui type. She’ll think I’m some bum on the street if I buy clothes here.
- Hey, these look good…
- [YAY]
***
CHAI! Yes! O my god, just what I needed.
Do chai dena yaar. Mathri bachi hai?
I’m trying to blend.
She eats that thing, what is it called...Cheese twist or whatever. Yuck. That crispy thing that makes crumbs all over your clothes.
***
[There’s this distinctly chor-bazaar-ish display of goods at the end of the market.]
- Yeh kitne ka hai?
She wants to buy the fish-lamp. The plastic 80s art-deco piece of shit, a broken fish-tail lampshade. Weird.
- I don’t know you. You want to buy this thing, don’t you.
- Maybe when I have a house of my own.
***
I don’t even want to buy anything. So many books already waiting to be read...
***
- Emily Dickinson!
- You know, I had this thing for her once; you know she’s the kind of writer you pick up in the library and just end up reading on and on for hours...
- I know, same here...
- What’s that one, um...
“A word is dead...”
- “When it is said,
Some say. I say it just...”
- Begins to live
That day.”
***
- What’s that?
- I don’t know, go ask.
- Bhaiyya, yeh kya hai? [- Naankhataai]
- Really? Not like the ones I’ve eaten in Lucknow...
- Yeh kaise banta hai, Bhaiyya? [- Aapke saamne banaa to raha hoon Madam]
[He was making tiny bakery-biscuit sized cakes and heating them on a makeshift tandoor heated by coals on his tthela.
They were absolutely delicious.]
***
Jama Masjid ke liye Madam aap to galat side aa gayeen.
[Chhodo. Next time.]
***
Home, hungry, tired, more broke than before; back to hostel in time to catch leftover Maggi and tepid chai.
A Day in the Life: Turning 35
Prickly. The little hair that starts growing in your armpit like a second after you’ve shaved. Maybe I should get waxed next time. Eek. Somebody else in my armpit. No thanks.
I was slopping on some lotion, it was winter, anyway I’d be breaking into a dry rash any day now. Did I rub harder than usual? Am I just imagining things?
I felt a lump. Right side. Only right side. Nothing on the left. Funny. Never noticed this lump before. Not funny really. I check, recheck. My right and left don’t match.
Something’s wrong. Can’t be. I’m not over fifty. That’s when you’re supposed to go for those regular check-ups and shit. I’m not even forty. Dammit. I’m just a day over thirty five goddammit. It’s nothing. Relax. We just have too much information. Just a recipe for hypochondria. It’s nothing. Just some rough skin. Maybe it’s just a hair follicle gone mad. Ok. Ok. It’s nothing.
Remember when Athimber had bought that big fat medical book, I was eleven, I thought I had breast cancer. Mercifully I just had breasts. It was just the tender tissue of a growing child. Nobody had told me, that’s all.
Maybe I should just call Anand. No, leave it. He’ll be busy, anyway it’s silly to call him at work for something so small. If it hadn’t been for this meeting at this odd hour, I’d just have been at work myself. Not at home, time to kill.
Maybe it’s something to do with the hormones. Ya, that’s got to be it. Why can’t we just have a kid like everybody else does. Dammit. All these fucking hormones. If my body isn’t ready how the hell do they want to force it. I wonder if he gets weird side effects. Must ask him. Maybe he thinks I’ll get worried if he tells me. He never tells me anything. No, wait. That was the last doctor. Anand isn’t taking any supplements anymore. Or is he?
Dammit.
Better just go to the bloody meeting, so much better things to do.
I was slopping on some lotion, it was winter, anyway I’d be breaking into a dry rash any day now. Did I rub harder than usual? Am I just imagining things?
I felt a lump. Right side. Only right side. Nothing on the left. Funny. Never noticed this lump before. Not funny really. I check, recheck. My right and left don’t match.
Something’s wrong. Can’t be. I’m not over fifty. That’s when you’re supposed to go for those regular check-ups and shit. I’m not even forty. Dammit. I’m just a day over thirty five goddammit. It’s nothing. Relax. We just have too much information. Just a recipe for hypochondria. It’s nothing. Just some rough skin. Maybe it’s just a hair follicle gone mad. Ok. Ok. It’s nothing.
Remember when Athimber had bought that big fat medical book, I was eleven, I thought I had breast cancer. Mercifully I just had breasts. It was just the tender tissue of a growing child. Nobody had told me, that’s all.
Maybe I should just call Anand. No, leave it. He’ll be busy, anyway it’s silly to call him at work for something so small. If it hadn’t been for this meeting at this odd hour, I’d just have been at work myself. Not at home, time to kill.
Maybe it’s something to do with the hormones. Ya, that’s got to be it. Why can’t we just have a kid like everybody else does. Dammit. All these fucking hormones. If my body isn’t ready how the hell do they want to force it. I wonder if he gets weird side effects. Must ask him. Maybe he thinks I’ll get worried if he tells me. He never tells me anything. No, wait. That was the last doctor. Anand isn’t taking any supplements anymore. Or is he?
Dammit.
Better just go to the bloody meeting, so much better things to do.
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