Happy is a man who lives under my bed

I woke up happy today. No, not happy. I woke up, let’s call it ‘happy, but not all that’. In spite of dreams of humiliation bestowed on me by unknown IIMers or whatever they like to call themselves, I awoke happy (but not all that). Not the Saturday morning drinking Chamomile tea in a cafe while reading Murakami kind of happy but drinking adrak chai, listening to trashy Bollywood songs, eating wada pao with extra mirchi kind of happy. Wearing long-distance puppy smothered, long distance puppy smelling sweatshirt kind of melancholic happy. If I were a dog I’d lick your face kind of restless happy. The kind of happy that replies to

‘nothing’

with a

‘the feeling of a fully charged phone

The smell of cinnamon on a book in a cafe

Look on the face of a puppy when he pees

A dusty path

Sight of a paper plane in flight

So many nice things to say, but…nothing.’

over email. Or maybe the holding back a reply kind of still-hopeful happy.

Even trying to rhyme words on a list of things to do on new year’s day 1) start reading a new book 2) change the way your hair will look 3) write about the last walk you took 4) maybe even try to cook? kind of (embarrassed) happy.

Lying in best friend’s bed having a hypothetical Bollywood gyaan conversation with her long distance smothered on sweatshirt boyfriend – happy. Waking up to beautiful messages (“I hope you have all the happiness in the world. I am sending the warmest feelings from the deepest part of my heart”) kind of luke warm happy. Or or the being called by a pet name kind of butterflies-in-my-stomach-lifting-me-off-my-feel happy.

I’d pick this life’s suffering over the others, the kind of happy that is happy for the realization of inevitability of suffering kind of happy. The kind of happy that if it had to be heard would sound like the laughter right in the middle of ‘city of stars’ or like home noises: the noise of the fan over the distant barking of the dogs that becomes slightly louder every time the sound of a motorbike passes by. The sound of mummy talking over the sound of Amir khan on TV asking why he grew his facial hair. And the interruption in this of papa’s call from the kitchen for help and the sound of the fridge which you only become aware of when it stops- kind of happy. And if you were to smell it, it would smell of the corner of Fabindia store I have made a hobby of smelling creams and candles out of, or the smell of baby butts just powdered, of Ratraanis smelt from a black bench seated in front of the parking lot, of cinnamon on books on tables of cafes. This happy probably looks like sunlight at 4:39pm, like powdered baby butts in green pants, like new ceramic finish coffee mugs with nude shade lipsticks on them. It looks like a face when it blushes. It feels like the touch of socks on yellow cold toes, like the feeling in your stomach at the top of a giant wheel, the feeling you get when in hurry you cross a green light. It has the energy of a child who just finished a 200 meters race and won. It tastes of dahi and green chutney, of chicken kabab in front of Jama masjid and of wada pao with extra mirchi and hot chocolate, of course hot chocolate with a pillow on your lap.

That happy.

That one.

 

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