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A Desi Day

Sometimes awake,
mostly asleep.
The Indian mind is such.
Cribs about the very slightly under-cooked daal,
for as long as it takes for Archana Puran Singh to stop laughing.
Then questions everyone,
about how many pieces of barfi they had.
Because now there are only 2 left.
Eats both of them.
Goes to bed without brushing their teeth.
Dant Kanti doesn’t require brushing, maybe.
Dreaming of a foreign vacation wakes up at 4:30,
some idiot forgot to turn off the motor and the water overflows.
As does the crowd around 8:30.
Ah, damn that ugly boss’ face, damn it.
Spends the whole day thinking of how amazing
Just how amazing the world would be,
if you were made the boss.
Sluggish, around 1,
even the boss takes a virtual one hour death.
Unreachable even to the Gods;
Speed isn’t the best,
when one is trying to sleep on the desk.
Dreams of saffron, dreams of red.
Wakes up to a genuine customer demand,
throws a little random gyaan about
patience etc.
Shares the ride home with Sharma ji.
Petrol bills split every month meticulously.
6 pm, Ramdev is on.
A little nostril dance,
a little evening romance.
Five hundred fifty five,
is just the name of the chai.
After much discussion about what to cook tonight,
the daal will be just the right choice.
Crib in advance,
because even Kapil Sharma tonight isn’t on.

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