I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it has been raining a bit in Pune.
All over the place, actually, and with some pretty dire consequences. But the theme of this column has been resolutely Wodehousian since inception, and we shall continue to follow Pelhalm’s dictum of writing a musical comedy without music, and ignoring life altogether.
And so, as I was saying, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it has been raining a bit in our fair metropolis. Now, there’s rain, and there’s too much rain – and to my untutored eye, it’s been rather more of the latter, and not so much of the former.
It saps you, this rain. It takes away from the lightness of spirit that Pune otherwise imbues you with. It drains one of one’s je ne sais quoi, and leaves one with very little desire to do anything except sit on one’s bed and look contemplatively at the dreariness outside.
And for folks such as me, the problem is ever more acute, for your columnist’s default state of affairs is to sit on his bed and look contemplatively at the dreariness outside.
When I, of little enthusiasm at the best of times in any case, wake up to the sound of water dripping outside my window, and to the sight of dank grey clouds until the visible horizon and beyond – why, it is a miracle that I can be bothered to even make the coffee.
Having become somewhat accustomed to the notion that her life partner makes sloths look like Usain Bolt, the missus mutters some Bengali imprecations under her breath, and moves off in the direction of the kitchen.
She returns after ten minutes or so, bearing in her hands two steaming cups of joe. I bleat out my thanks, and sip on the life giving liquid, still staring bleary eyed at the impermeable fog of grey that has been Pune’s skyline for the past week.
Having finished the coffee, I turn with defeated visage to the missus, and shrug helplessly. That shrug might not mean much to a person who doesn’t know me well, but to anyone of even passing acquaintance, the shrug speaks volumes.
It speaks to my inability to even contemplate working when the weather is the way it is. It speaks of how everything else must wait, and how books must be perused, coffee must be consumed, and good food must be had. Excel and Powerpoint and meetings and assignments can wait, for such mountains must be climbed in fair weather, not foul.
Having been with me through thick and thin, and through sickness and in health, the missus doesn’t even bother responding. The imprecations shift to a higher octave, perhaps, but that’s about it. And so she leaves, leaving me to a day filled of nothing.
Now, the problem is, it has been raining so heavily this past week, that this has been my routine, more or less unvarying, for the past week.
And that, dear reader, is why you’re reading this today, rather than this past Thursday.
I would have apologized, but you and I both know I don’t really mean it.
He doesn't expect the paradox to be resolved in his lifetime
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