My sister Safa had asked me to get in touch with a man named S… (I can’t believe this is the second time that this is happening; I’d written this post once before, but I was half asleep at the time—not getting enough sleep these days, maybe a couple of hours a day, like 3 or 4 tops—so I thought I’d write this whole thing again and see if I could churn out anything a bit better. I’m still a little groggy, as my not being able to remember the person in questions name would account, but it was something starting with an S, and it meant beautiful… Sundar, of course! Gosh, why couldn’t I get that? I was just getting Surrendra for some reason. I guess I must apparently happen to know a Surrendra from somewhere, even though I have no idea from where, nor am I in the mood to even think about it right now. Sorry, Surrendra. So, as I was saying—I thought I’d go to the Facebook office as I was supposed to today and submit the cheque that my sister had asked me to. It was her bonus amount that the company had paid her at the time of induction, and since she was only able to stay there for the past 4 months, she had to forfeit the amount. She’d been in touch with the guy (Sundar) from hr, and he’d asked her to send someone by today, or yesterday, and since I wasn’t able to make it yesterday, I’d decided that I’d go and see him today. She told me where the building was, and had asked me to get in touch with the guy before I left, so that he’d know I was coming.
I’d had my few hours of sleep today as well, but instead of staying awake for the whole night, and only sleeping for an hour or two in the afternoon, I decided to lie down in bed by 2 in the morning, and after staying there for the next 2 hours—I was finally able to get some shut eye, thankfully. It was only 2 or 3 hours, but by the time I woke up—I was totally refreshed. I’d already shaved the day before; I’ve started growing my beard every month, well, actually—twice a month, because that’s when I have to get it trimmed. But it’d usually be at the barbers and I’d go to him and let him do the dirty work. It would only take 10-15 minutes, but today—I thought I’d do it by myself; I had given up shaving ever since my accident, because one of my hands (the right one that too) had lost some of its mobility. I mean, don’t get me wrong—it’s not like I’m cripple (somehow that word seems wrong for me to use that way if I were talking about someone else, but I don’t mind so much if it’s me I’m talking about), I just wasn’t as comfortable using it as I was before. Ever since the accident, and me being in a coma for ten days, then in and out of consciousness for the next two or three months—I’d kind of gotten used to just having it there by my side, all curled up, and not using it anymore.
My doctor, the guy who was recording my progress since the accident, told me that the more I’d avoid using it, the worse stiff it’d get. I tried to take his advice and not ignore my arm as much as I’d become accustomed to, but I was still recovering, and I think I might’ve been suffering from Ptsd, as a good friend of mine had pointed out. So the confidence needed to do even the smallest of tasks was something that would become an insurmountable hurdle for me—one which I thought I’d never be able to overcome. But you know what, ever since my mother’d left recently, and my sisters too now, I don’t have this blanket around me that I would all the time: telling myself—it’s alright even if “you” don’t do it—there’s someone else there who probably will, and would thus take the easy way out. But not yesterday, yesterday I thought I’d make my stand. So gillette in hand, I went into the bathroom armed with my shaving brush and shaving gel, on a mission, and exited the bathroom only after the deed was done. It took me a little over half an hour, but boy did I do a good job—even better than the guy who’s supposed to be a professional at these kinds of things. And oh, man is it smooth—still. It’s been a whole day now and I still love rubbing it, every now and again. Heh, that’s it—I think I’ll only go to the barber for a haircut from now on.
What else… so, I had gotten the shave done yesterday, and had washed the car (it was really getting dirty by now) picked out my clothes (a friend of mine had gifted me this really cool shirt recently, and I thought that would be perfect for FB) and had checked up on all the information that my sister had given me, and was good to go. I had a bit of trouble getting some sleep that night, but even then, by sticking to my guns (my mother would always tell me—even if you’re not getting any sleep, just keep on lying there—and you’ll eventually get it), so this time I decided to heed her advice, and what do you know—she was right, of course. I did get sleep that night, the first since many, many nights now (otherwise I would just manage a few hours during the day) and was up by 6:30. We still had plenty of time, so I decided to work on my computer for awhile. Was online for another hour, and then decided to go and get ready. Changed my clothes, took a shower… no, that’s not right—I didn’t take a shower. I take a bath maybe every other day. I know you might find that disgusting if you’re taking one every day, but I hardly have anywhere to go these days, except sit on my computer. And, oh my god, that every other day that I do have to take a bath—I totally massacre my poor skin. I don’t know, I think I might have a problem. Cleaning it again and again and again, like I’m performing some kind of surgery on it, and then even when it’s finished I wonder if I’ve done a good enough job.
It used to take me over an hour, then it came down to just under an hour, and now it’s half an hour flat. My aunt, who had called up when I was in the shower, was informed by my dad that I was in the bathroom, so wouldn’t be available for an hour at least. He didn’t know how much I’d improved on my timing since coming back home from the hospital. So just a minute or two after he’d finished talking to her, I opened my room and stepped out. He was surprised to see me coming down the stairs so soon, and told me that my aunt had called, so I decided to go back up and give her a call and see if everything was alright. My aunt lives in Mumbai, so it’s not like I get to see her every day. (I live in Hyderabad by the way.) So I give her a call and tell her what I was up to, and she goes—what, by god do you do in there for an hour, I’d like to know? And I tell her—no, no, that’s how much of time I used to spend before—now it’s like maybe half an hour. Even that’s too much time she says. Just step in, get everything done as quickly as possible, and step out. Shouldn’t take you more than ten minutes. And I say, yeah, but you haven’t factored in the number of scrubs that I have to make to every body part, which is what causes the delay, I say. She laughs and tells me the next time she calls she wants to hear that I’ve brought it down to somewhere in the vicinity of 10 minutes, if not ten. I say fine, I’ll try, but I hardly think it’ll work. We’ll see.
So then I was ready to wake up next morning and change into my clothes, and call the guy who I was supposed to from hr, and tell him that I was coming, and would he be in. I think I’d made the first call at 8:30 (safa had asked me to be at the office by 9) but there was no response. I thought he might still be asleep, so why don’t I try him again in another half an hour’s time. Dad had already changed into his clothes and was preparing breakfast by now. Scrambled eggs. Dad can’t fast because of the medication he’s currently on, and he has to take something every couple of hours, so that his stomach isn’t empty. (My dad was a heavy smoker until a year or two ago, but those 35 years have really left their mark on him. He coughs incessantly sometimes, and still has to take a puff of the damn things every day—that’s how addicted to them he’s become. But yeah, he’s down to only a cigarette a day, instead of the multiple number of packs he’d have in his youth, when he was in the gulf: I still remember the cartons of Dunhills and Rothman’s he’d get.)
I’d made another call to Sundar by now and still no response, and it was 9 already. So I told my dad that I’d give him another ring in another half an hour and if he still doesn’t answer his phone we’d at least drive up there and find out what’s wrong and when he’ll be in. My dad agreed and as he was writing the cheque for the 35,000 rupees that we had to pay the guy—he asked me to go and check in on the lady who lives across the street. She works as a domestic servant to make ends meet, and ever since mom’s been gone I’ve taken up all the duties around the house, but today he thought I might need some help… so, when I heard that the reason why dad was calling her was to sweep the boundary and to keep on doing it every week, I was just a little bit hesitant to say anything to him, but then decided to keep my trap shut. So I went to her place, couldn’t find her and came back. My dad had to go out anyway and buy his daily dose of lung killers so he decided to see if he could find her. He did, and told her to come by whenever she was free to do the work around the house and leave. It was up to her when she wanted to come; the gate would always be open. (She came as we were leaving, and we’d tried calling up Sundar again as well, but still no response. So we figured we might as well go there.)
Just as we were about to turn into the
enclosure that housed all the multinationals, including the
Facebook Hyderabad offices my phone started to vibrate—it was Sundar, no doubt. I was driving in rush hour traffic so had to wait awhile before I could call him back. I told him that I was in the area and asked him if I could come by, and he said sure. My sister had told me where the office was (a building no. 14) and I thought I’d confirm it with him. He said he’d inform the receptionist that I was on my way, and that he’d be waiting for me on the fourth floor. We parked the car, signed ourselves in, and went up to the fourth floor. It… it was okay, I mean, after seeing the
ge building you really can’t compare it to anything else. And besides, I’m sure that there are a lot other offices of theirs in the building so I’m assuming it might be better. But they are great at one thing, and ge doesn’t even come close to the people at facebook, but when my sister was there—not only would she get her breakfast and lunch served to her, but she would be allowed to take whatever she wanted from the refrigerator:
drinks,
chocolates, juices. You name it, she’d get it. She’d always bring me home something or the other too.:)
So we entered the office and I spoke to the receptionists and told them I was here to meet a Mr. Sundar, and they said yes, please take a seat—he’ll be right out. He came out after a couple of minutes and introduced himself and then asked me for my address (it’s been so long since I’ve given anyone my address, my god, he must’ve thought I was such a dunce—I wrote down our pincode no. with an 8 in it, instead of a 7, but don’t worry—my dad was there to correct me in public, as usual, and embarrass the hell out of me). Also, as I was writing down the cell phone no. I thought I’d check it in my phone it self—I’ve got it stored there for times like these—and what do you know: I’d written an 8 instead of a 7 again for that one too. I hope this was just because I was actually doing something like this after so long, and not because of the accident and the crash that ended up maybe short circuiting my head. Just as we were heading out, I hear someone call out sir, and then again, and then a “mr. daanish”, and I’m like—no way. There’s actually someone else here with my name! Turns out, it was me she was calling. She was asking me to sign the register, so I did, and I told her that it was the first time that anyone had ever addressed me as Sir, let alone a Mr, so I had no idea she was referring to me—“I’m sorry”, and she laughed. I think that was the highlight of my Facebook trip today.
That’s what I was writing to a girl that I liked, who—as usual (girls have a tendency of doing this to me by the way, so it’s not only been her, but it’s more of a rule of thumb I’m sad to say). However, I rarely tell the object of my affections how I feel about her, except this one time, so that was a first), even though she was trying to tell me (the poor thing—she was doing it in as delicate a manner as possible) that she wasn’t interested in me in that way; it was just correspondence that we had to share, but now—even that’s gone, and I can’t help regretting the fact that I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life, probably… well, I do blame myself for it—for acting like a complete buffoon and seeing love where it's obviously not. And then, deciding to dedicate myself so totally to it that I expect her to follow— even if she can't. Or doesn’t want to… I'm sorry C.
