The stars definitely are frowning on me. Mom always used to tell me I have a weak Jupiter and I remember retorting that Shoemaker Levy had changed all that. But I get superstitious once in a while, when things like these happen. I wake up in the morning to see it's 11:35am. I am angry. No, not because I missed breakfast. That comes naturally to me ever since I started sleeping at 4am. I am angry because my toilet-mate (if you can share rooms and apartments, you can share toilets too, right?) hasn't woken me up as he had promised to. The result: I am late for a meeting with my supervisor. I run against time, like most of us do daily. By the time I reach the super's cabin, I am sweating like those long-distance runners from impoverished African countries. His sardonic grin does not make me feel any comfortable. A lecture follows on how foreign talent is overrated and other stories. The professor proceeds with clinical diplomacy, subtly suggesting I am irresponsible and careless, taking advantage of the leeway he has granted me. Well, we all have days like these, so I nod apologetically, assuring him my project is going on just fine. I have gained some confidence in my own abilities in his cool air-conditioned office. The man is actually smiling. Whether it is at my naivete or at my ability to tell lies without blinking an eye, I do not know. Five hours and a lot many lines of code later, I emerge to sip tea. Or maybe it is to ogle at some of God's more beautiful creatures with my colleagues. There is a small voice inside that tells me to stop being such a pathetic loser, but in view of the camaraderie and the bevy of beauties that are walking around us, I ask to take a long walk. The sun is on the descendant, like they say in those astrology strips that no one believes in but everyone reads, when I trudge my weary way home. After a warm shower and shave, I am ready to shoot some filthy capitalist scum out of the sky as I joust with my roommate on some pirated MiG simulation game he has whisked from one of those computer flea markets. At around 10pm we troop down to the kitchen to make some Maggi with soy sauce, and slurp it down while watching some documentary on how chimps hunt in packs on Discovery. I feel ashamed of myself; my mental awareness at that point is lower than the furry monkeys the chimps are hunting, as I stare at the tube like a lifeless blob of flesh that is held in place by bones. Muscles? Oh no, we don't grow that anymore. I crawl into my cold, hard bed with Zakir Hussain's Shakti playing almost inaudibly in the background. I have forgotten where I put that motivational speaker's pamphlet they are handing out on road these days. Maybe I should go to him. But then, like Jerry Seinfeld said, if I could motive myself to go to this guy, I should be able to motive myself to do anything. Ah, let's keep that for tomorrow. I listen to the hazel-eyed maiden that's singing in that faraway tower, waiting for me to rescue her, and drift into slumber. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day. Onkar Joshi promises to get a new life as soon as he figures out what to do with his old one. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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