Thought Crimes

The quintessential morning begins with the crow of the rooster. Rather rummy, the crow of a rooster. If it’s a rooster, shouldn’t it leave crowing to the crows and spend its time roosting? But then English was never the most logical of languages. Check out what Old Man Poochie has to say about it. Crowing and roosting aside, the point that I’m trying to put across, in my own verbose way, is that morning’s here. Here, I must pause and remember fondly one of the greatest FRIENDS episodes- The One Where they bet the apartment. It begins with the neighbour singing, “Morning’s here” much to Rachel’s chagrin. Or does it begin with Joey’s and Chandler’s rooster crowing? I think it does. That’s when they realize that the chick is actually a rooster. Which brings me back to the rooster.

This morning, I heard a rooster crow for possibly the first time in my life. At least the first time at the crack of dawn. Faithful readers who’ve read Ding Dong Clock will wonder what Lefty was doing up and about at the crack of dawn. You guessed it. I didn’t sleep tonight. A great pity really. For sleep is one of the greatest things a man can ask for. For me, the entire process begins sometime between 11 and 2. There are times when, like the proverbial hard-working honest soul, I hit the pillow and drift into a peaceful slumber. But those times are rare, very rare indeed. Generally, I spend anything between half an hour to indefinitely trying to coerce myself into sleeping. I count sheep, try not to think of anything, put on soothing music, anything for those 8 hours of bliss. Advocates of “6 hours is substantial sleep, 7 is luxury and 8 is vice” can go watch Jhoom Barabar Jhoom for all I care.

Once the unthinkable has been achieved however, I am in paradise. My head and the pillow, my shoulders and the mattress, all rejoice in tacit joy at their union. I plunge headlong into the deepest fathoms of sleep, content and at peace with the world. Sleep enmeshes me into her loving arms, caressing me as I cherish the moments spent with her. Dreams occasionally interrupt this lover’s rendezvous, trying to lure me away by showing me quixotic visions of myself as a plenipotentiary, a Croesus, an Adonis or even as a champion general of my AoE forces. I resist, but there are times when I have to give in. I am human after all, and entitled at least one Achilles’ heel.

The first rays of the sun are supposed to be one of the greatest sights mankind can behold. These rays, a mere glimpse of which is coveted by thousands, find me blissfully unaware in my ground-floor room at the Farmhouse. They peep in through the tiny window and illuminate the content and occasionally vacuous expression, on my visage. These rays must be beautiful, everyone says so. If there’s a heaven on earth, then as long as its prepared to let me sleep in peace, I’m prepared to accept that it exists.

The cry of the rooster is greeted by Raps hanging his washed clothes on the clothesline. What he does before that is something that no one knows. Its slated to appear on History’s Mysteries on the History Channel any day now. All that is known is that Raps, like Tolkien’s Tom Bombadil, like the Bible’s Adam and like our Manu, is the First. The First who hangs clothes on the clothesline. Once he’s done though, he walks past the 11 doors that separate his spic and span room from my not-so-spic and span one and bangs the door open. It is then that the mother of all battles begins. Sleep continues to hold me tight in her arms, enchanting me into believing that she and I are inextricable. Raps uses clear logic and the threat of attendance backs to convince me that we better not be. Sleep is magniloquent, whispering to me that this disturbance is ephemeral, and should I let it pass, we shall be One once more. Raps adroitly puts on the light, shakes me by the shoulder and shouts, “One more cross on the Bunk-O-Meter.” Occasionally, he is joined by Good Boy, who lends him a helping had in this mammoth uphill battle, the Newspaper-waala, who shows the same look of saturnine indifference at this epic everyday battle and dutifully drops the morning’s copy of HT and ET, and the Dhobi, who still calls me Bhaiya (Refer: That Ubiquitous Relative).

Having got me to open my eyes, they mutter threats and move out, letting me know how much time I have to get myself to class in a presentable manner. Sleep exults at the retreat of her foes and tempts me into her arms again. New, hitherto unexplored adventures are offered for the next couple of hours, titillating each nerve of mine. I find myself succumbing to these wiles. My eyelids begin to droop. The pillow gets softer and the mattress more comfortable. A hundred reasons explaining why missing class wouldn’t make any difference flash before my heavy eyes. A thousand promises saying that I will go to class the following day, week and month are made to myself. My eyelids droop further, eyelashes looking to meet the cheeks with the touch of finality.

Somehow, denying sleep her victory, I groggily get up, reach out for my spects, curse anything and everything and move towards my toothbrush. Morning’s here and another day in the life of Lefty has just begun.

# posted by Saagar @ 4:58 pm