There are some days that you know, right from the start, won’t go the way you’d like them to. From the moment go, feel things are amiss. Yet you cannot put a finger on it. But you push every ounce of confusion and and that cloud of unsettledness away and power on.
Yesterday was one such day. For one, we had rain the previous night. Just when the heat peaked and I was making peace with surrendering to the forces that be (and that are hell bent on seeing me suffer), it had to go and rain. It was cool-ish when I woke up, and realised I had slept right through it. But you know what a spell of pissy rain does, in the midst of otherwise oppressive heat, right? It makes it hotter.
Cue: more sweat. And now, the beginnings of prickly heat. Oh well.
There was some solace to be had in the crazy breeze. Or so I told myself, until it knocked a massive paper lamp down, which I had to then gingerly put back together.
Turning on my computer revealed that one mini cloudburst is enough to bring all connectivity to a standstill in the boondocks where I live. The internet was down. Only for the 3894783th time this month. Something the wonderful folks at Hathway prefer to push under the carpet. And worse, try and provide remote tech-support to fix. Rather than get their tushies down here to fix it. Last I heard, fixing a broken service was also part of the service. Instead all I get, every time I call is a string of unintelligible prompts that I never quite know what to make of.
“Madam, you need to ping your device.”
“Can you connect your device from the back and check for a ping?”
“We will have to come there and ping your device.”
If I didn’t know better, I might have taken offense. And called the husband to come sit at home with me, lest someone tries to accost me and “ping my device”. Many frustrated calls later, I decide to give up and move on to the other important chore of the day. Replacing an exhausted gas cylinder. Yes folks. I never thought I’d see the day when I tweet this:
“Gas ran out while I was half way through frying pooris. #FML”
I am now that variety of aunty whose morning can get ruined by untimely interruptions in poori-making. And then takes heart in the fact that “at least the sabji got made in time”.
So I lug the damn empty cylinder four floors down, drive myself to the agency, where I have to pay, pick up a receipt, proceed to the godown and exchange cylinders. All this because unlike the rest of the country, where you call and book a cylinder, in Panjim I have to wait for the weekly (yes, it only happens once a week) gas rounds to happen, in the hope that my cylinder will time its running out really well. So that it can be replaced seamlessly.
Haha, of course that never happens. So I now indulge myself in self-service. And before you applaud me for me heroic gas cylinder acrobatics down four floors, hold your horses. I have to tell you its easy when you’re going down and the cylinder is empty. Its lugging a full one up that is the bitch. So I get some help. And we share the load 50-50. Now you can applaud my lower back and upper arm strength.
However, I had no such luck yesterday. I lugged that damn cylinder down for nothing. Because apparently the godown was shut. And it “may or may not open for two days”. And as of today, we are pushing day three of gaslessness, microwaved green tea and no breakfast. Now this is a truly #FML moment. Anywho, I argue a bit and try and push for a quick replacement, but the guy is adamant so I leave before I pop a blood vessel thanks to the slowly building pressure in my temples. But on the drive back I call him back to ask how long it might take for them to deliver a cylinder.
“Oh by tomorrow evening,” he says chirpily.
And I lose it again. “Why didn’t you give me that option then??!”
“Because you didn’t ask medam. You wanted to go to the godown.”
See what I mean? #FML.
So I make the booking. Trying to impress on the intelligent fellow that the reason I wanted to go to the godown was to get a freaking new cylinder. And that any other option available would have been fine by me. ERGO, just replace the goddamn cylinder, one way or another!
With no food at home, I decided to drive by my favourite biryani joint to pick some lunch up. This place is literally a joint, where one walks in pays and walks out with neatly packed dum biryani in aluminium foil cartons. Quick and painless, I thought. Perfect for the kind of morning I was having. I could almost taste it. I get there at 12 and ask for two biryanis parcelled.
“12.30 ke baad aao.” (Come back after 12.30!)
Having already skipped breakfast, indulged in some heavy-lifting and exhausted much energy being angry and frustrated, I was ravenous. Also, my mind was set on the biryani and given how the morning was going I was determined to take control and make at least one thing go my way. I wasn’t going to let Murphy win this one. So I walked back to my car, my black car parked in the scorching sun. I got back inside and sat in it, toasting away for the next twenty minutes until it was biryani o’ clock.
Biryani in hand, I drive home. Hot, irritable and rather peeved, but rather pleased that I can rest in peace. The internet would hopefully be fixed. The gas cylinder would be delivered to my doorstep. And I can finally turn the ac on, have my lunch and get some work done. Yessssss!
Except, on the way up to my home, I stubbed my toe.
Cue: some wincing, blinding pain and a prickly feeling behind my eyes as I blink baack a few tears.
You win this round Murphy.