Sometimes, I sit engrossed with work, but my mind wanders, and I allow it to go as far as it can. To work and to write at the same time is a well-kept secret of the literary world. When people tell you they do not have time to write, you ask them, cordially and nonchalantly, but do you have time to live? In any case, I sat like I often sit, a screen in front of me, some trivial work that may or may not have a significant say in the grand scheme of things. I thought of how most of us are already living in the tail-end of history, that most of humanity has happened already. We are but imitations of each other, all of us working on things to keep the world running. The risky voyages to different, unknown lands are all done. The exchange of culture, of bringing recipes, spices and cats from your land to another, is over. All we do has happened before, and none of what we do will ever be remembered. And then, I thought of how every person before me must have thought of the same thing, and yet, in some way, their life has stood for something.
On a Monday, like all Mondays, I end the day partially asleep as I tell the cabbie to take the correct route before I drift off, only to be woken by the patter of rain on the window and the metallic clinking of each drop on the top of the car. This shower seems as ephemeral as my sleep since it, too, comes along for a minute, only to disappear. Then, I reach my parents’ place, laugh a little, and have a hearty dinner. And after that, I come to my desk and hover near it until I can resist no further, and begin working again. At first, this saddens me a little, but then, it occurs to me how privileged it is: to have work and to love it. Entire lives are passed without even a glimpse of this pleasure, and here I am, drowning in it. The sun had shone, and the rain had taken centre stage; I did not remember anything about it. This, too, was a blessing in disguise.