Stage 1

Falling asleep is easy, however its the middle of the night when he goes from the alpha to the beta stages of sleep, where he wakes up for a bit, that is the most difficult part to deal with. There takes place a churning of such proportions that leaves him gasping on that cold bed of his by the window. Its almost as if his insides have been taken out and there is just this cold wind blowing within which causes an uncontrollable shiver. It takes all his will to stop it and he forces himself to look outside the window and wonder at the city sprawled out in front of him. Yes he did make mistakes and yes he was difficult but yes he did offer the olive branch time-and-again and yet somehow the question that continues to torment him starts its taandav again- will things ever be the same again? He has been reading lately in a novel where the author says that things are never as bad as they seem and yet for some reason based on all the conversations they have had, he has a bad feeling about this one. He has always backed his gut and this time it tells him that there are still some answers missing which brings on the next wave of churning. So he does the only thing possible in these circumstances- he curls himself up trying his hardest to shut those thoughts within him hoping that they would get lost somewhere inside his abyss of a mind. But they just keep coming back again and again and again.

Week 2 - Job...job...job...

I have never consciously gone about looking for a job however the last week has been one of continuous applications. In some ways, I guess I just never had to. First job in college almost came on a platter with me being completely unprepared for an interview as I had gone to college that day in my floaters. I stayed with my first job for 2 years and the second job that I got in India also did not require much except for an application on monster.com with a call from the consultant, a first round of interview at the company's location and the next two telephonic interview rounds and I had my next job. But I eventually gave that up and here I am in Melbourne looking for my first job ever online, in the newspapers, on posters and anywhere else I can find any.

I start my first casual job here on Monday where I will be selling some stuff to small businesses. Its what we call in India, derogatorily, a salesman's job and what they call euphemistically here, an Independent Contractor. Its a tough job, out in the sun all day, knocking on people's doors and eventually knowing that if I don't sell I do not get paid. Why am I doing this? I don't really know actually. While trying to decide if I wanted to do this, it seemed like I have already changed so much about my life so lets just go ahead and do something I have never done before along with looking for other better permanent positions. So Monday will find me all dressed up nattily with a suit and tie, knocking on people's doors and trying to make sales, sales and more sales.

Week one in Melbourne

Day 6 completed in Melbourne. I have been swamped with questions about how I am doing and for some reason I have been strangely ambivalent about it. Its a beautiful city from both a purist and a yupee's point of view. If the State Victoria Library and the National Gallery of Victoria will cause a purist immense satisfaction, Chappel street and Lygon Street are the yuppies' manna. I think I have been caught somewhere between this. As I took a half hour walk from St. Kilda Road to my apartment on Swanston street, the weather turned unexpectedly cold and yet the biting wind did wonders to my spirits. Reached the bridge across the Yarra river to find drunk 18 years olds sliding along an architectural sculpture placed on the side. It seemed like the entire Swanston street was drunk and after a while I think even I reveled in their drunken state. It was infectious of sorts.

So there I am huffing and puffing on my way up Swanston and four drunk women are walking in my direction. Suddenly one of them takes a scarf and the other one holds it across and I am supposed to walk my way below it the way belly dancers do. Amusing they found it, only if they knew about my hernia.

I am home now; not knowing what tomorrow will bring and not sure if I want to think of today. So I am going to do the best thing possible in these circumstances. Sleep!

Time to go...

How does one pack away 23 years of possessions into two or three suitcases with a Damocles sword of 57kg hanging above? I sift through the old letters exchanged with school-mates who I now stay in touch with on Orkut and marvel at the effort we actually put in to stay a part of each other's lives. I come across a letter I once wrote to Bill Clinton, filled with idealistic fervor and I read it now and laugh at myself and yet I can't get myself to throw it away. I look at all the old photographs, me with my virgin mustache, old friends, women I once desired, family and so much more.How does one decide between a Calvin and a Rushdie- I do not want to leave either behind. Infact I do not want to leave any of my books behind because there is a story behind each one- whether it is the Art of Innovation which Sampy asked us to read which made us realise the tremendous potential of design or whether it is the Collected Plays of Neil Simon which will remind me forever of my time at evam. But I know as I caress them one last time, that they will have to be left behind.I know I will miss my king-sized bathroom and the times I have spent ruminating there. I pull out a dusty and worn away book which I recognize to be my choir book in school and tell myself that this I will take with me.

All these are just the material possessions I will miss. I do not want to get started with the people.How does one pack away 23 years of possessions into two or three suitcases? How?