As I kept undulating from side to side, on an obnoxiously large and spongy bed (in my room for the next 2 months at least) that phonecall kept playing and playing and replaying in my head on loop.
And for the first time since, I broke into a laugh.
And a really long one, at that.
If the meaning of the word 'faux pas' ever needed an example to be explicated to someone, there couldn't a more bang-on sample situation, ever in history, I thought...
[ In other news, my uncle had quite the enviable apartment.
Nice, neat and tastefully done.
Mute. And god-damn large (of course).
So seemed like it was going to be a good life for me, for the next two months in Delhi... ]
****
November 1st, 2011.
Day 1 at Ogilvy and Mather.
I'd set an alarm for 7.30 that morning.
[ Rising early was never a bummer for me, but setting an alarm always felt like a prudent thing to do.
You know, especially on exam days and these first days at work.]
However, I didn’t really need that alarm that day.
I woke up before the sun did.
And decided to take a little walk, around my uncle's compound.
Over my night suit I zipped on a light, black Nike jumper.
And slipped into a pair of old, tattered walking loafers.
Went down and started milling around.
[I had strict instructions from my aunt, NOT to step out of the building premises.
"This is Gurgaon, not Bombay," she said.
And given the obedient girl my mom taught me to be, I relented without a whisper of protest. ]
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