I still sometimes have to pinch myself when I suddenly realise that I am walking about all alone, sometimes very late at night (everything beyond six is late where I come from, and certain hours are not to be seen at all) in a city as big and strange to me as New Delhi. I can’t believe that I earn a salary, or that I spend almost everything I earn before the month is out. I can’t believe that I am answerable to people and that I could be fired for not doing what I am told to. It is all very strange.
I am the fish that is out of water and in denial.
I had never ever worked in my life. In fact I was brought up with a certain disdain for earning too much, or sacrificing anything of your self for a job. My parents, though both of them work, lead fairly flexible lives. Most of my uncles are always home though they seem to have enough money to pay for their household expenses, or to give money away grudgingly to old destitute relatives, young, errant sons and married daughters who wished to acquaint themselves to the comforts of microwave ovens. Others in the extended clan hold government jobs. They rarely seemed to stress out over their jobs. Growing up, it always seemed to me that most of my family members, my uncles and father especially, worked to keep up appearances or have something to do during the day. But I always did want a job, to have money to buy clothes and books and travel. Then as I grew up I realised I would much rather be a student than a work horse for anyone. Then I realised that I had to find a job, it was sort of expected. So I applied, stressed out, cried, bawled, cursed and finally got a job. I was told to ship myself off to this strange, dusty city. I was thrilled of course, and also determined to hate the place. That was something I always planned on doing, hating Delhi’s guts. Kochi was home and no one was going to make me like Delhi.
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