Last Thursday, I woke up to work. But before I talk about work, I’ll talk about my home.

I am very grateful to live where I live. I wake up to a view of Aarey Dairy Colony everyday. I get to choose what I want to eat, and unless it’s a workday, I design my schedule, because I have no strings attached. No husband, no children, just a wonderful boyfriend, 8000 miles away. (But that gap will close soon!) I have friendly, helpful neighbors. I get to walk barefoot on spotless floors…ah freedom! I get to focus on my writing, something that I’ve been wanting to do for a long time.

My apartment is my sanctuary from Bombay’s chaos. It’s my sanctuary from smog, the noise, the dog poop (I’m hoping that it’s dog poop!). It’s my sanctuary from the inefficiency, the inconsideration, the lies. The broken promises.

In my apartment, I can walk barefoot. I’m allowed a lack of color, a lack of noise, a lack of stimulation which is necessary for me to think. And to write.

But freedom always has its price. (One day I will blog about my apartment in Evangelista, a downtrodden area in Manila.) The price I have to pay for living here is my time and my labor. My time is not my own. Yes, officially, it’s 7:40 to 4:30, but in reality, it’s when the work gets done. And for many months that meant 12 to 14 hour weekdays and working during holidays. I have to pay electric bills, gas bills, internet. I have to ensure that my apartment is always clean and I’m eating the right food so my health doesn’t deteriorate. In others, I am responsible for myself, with no one to run to except B. But then again, he is 8000 miles away.

Which brings me to last Thursday.

Last Thursday, I woke up to work.

More on Durshet, a Happy Accident in my next entry.

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