Time creeps on a feverish day. I got a very bad sore throat and body pain. My eyes are red and hands numb. Sensing the pain in each drop of saliva swallowed, I stay wondered on the revolving-retracting comfort of my office chair.
I'm to go home next week and what is awaiting me is the huge book of unwritten rules authored by the society since years.
Rule 1: Being an expatriate, you are supposed to bring loads of 'Tang' and 'Nido' which has been gloriously representing the pride of gulf since ages.
Rule 2: You are 26 and you are not supposed to love your old home anymore. The mango trees and sparrows that made your mornings, the lonely corridors floored as a chess board where you spent your afternoon gazing at the light beams that sieved in through open window pane, the rainwater rushing down from the terracota tiles paved through your roof, all of them to be vanished into your memories. Only a two storeyed concrete cube can help you attract one more to the array of eminent engineeers and doctors that make your family.
Rule 3: You draw, you write, you click. But we just smirk.
Rule 4: Make money and you will respected. Make more money to gain more respect. Pleasure, satisfaction, passion, what is that ?
Rule 5: You are supposed to be fair and to gain weight. You are to impress the girls with your looks.
And there goes it unending. I see the lazy, cowardous letters hanging in bold, 'Priorities change', the very justification that goes in handy when you fear losing your face.
Hiding my fears with a weird smile, I hope an unexpected forking of road somewhere ahead guiding me to the wilderness.
