I started this post with too many images in my head. None of which wanted to form themselves into words on the screen. Life here in the PG has been eventful, as always.
In the morning, just a little after 7, when I am exercising, there is the alarming sound of someone trying to force the door open. With what little voice I can muster given the number of squats I am doing, I yell in Kannada. I am not sure what I yell. Then, I realize it’s the housekeepers. There are 2 of them. One, a woman in her thirties, and the other, an older man who has a mop and a bucket. The woman does the sweeping, and the man swobs and cleans the bathroom. I stand around, eating my muesli from the little yellow bowl, and I think what an incongruous sight this must be. Two people to clean a room that is this small. The woman has a look at my dumbells, and does a faultless imtitation of a deadlift. I smile, and try to say something in return, but the language is lost. And so is time, which as the old Alfred Prufrock poem says, “hurry up, please, it’s time.”