So I confess: I can’t help but feel slightly left out. The same feeling when I lost that election by 2 or 3 votes, and the rest of us all won. Hence the comic relief, that fills, or rather dominates, most of our conversations. For lack of better conversation. Or lack of an Inappropriate Khan or Reborn Rizwan equivalent. But then we’ll all go out for lunch (to Zouk), someone will treat me, and everything will be fine, and all feelings forgotten. I suppose.
I had a sudden urge to listen to Cyndi Lauper during the usual heater and you-know-what session. And after an exceptionally long and shirk-some day, or rather weekend, gender violence and human rights violations sits on my table top, glaring me in the eye. Above it, my Rubik’s cube balances itself precariously, yet with perfection, on one of its corners. Maggie Simpson yawns on a ceramic mug, and Clover peers down on me from the dusty ledge, next to an empty Mortein dispenser.
And here I am, wishing I was the fruit seller who bicycles down my street every afternoon shouting keenoo, amrood in high pitched, yet somehow melodious, Punjabi. I wonder what would happen if one day I decided to get on my bike and belt out girls just wanna have fun, at the top of my lungs down street 11.