Just Another Weekend

It is Saturday. You know, your typical, run-of-the-mill weekend morning where you wake up at eight in the morning, squeeze shaving cream onto your toothbrush, enter the bathroom and fall in the tub.  Well, you maybe. I do not do such things. 

In fact, for me it was a, you know, typical, run-of-the-mill weekend morning where everyone’s favorite cricketer had retired yesterday, and the internet was full of fawning posts, everyone having forgotten the abuses heaped on him thirty days ago, and I was kept awake till late in the night sobbing with happy memories of the times I had watched the man on TV and cursed and cursed till ad breaks saved me. I swear that was what I did all night, and nothing else.

Now, normally, I would not recommend waking up at eight am on a Saturday. In fact, I would not recommend waking up at eight am any day, but it seems some idiot had set the alarm for seven, and there is only a certain number of times you can press snooze before irritation gets the better of sleep. So I woke up at eight, for some strange reason, feeling very hungry despite not having eaten dinner yesternight. All very strange, I tell you.

 So I went to look in the fridge, and found a can of beer, and above the fridge, a pack of Oreo cookies and a pack of Goodday biscuits. From now on, it is very easy to guess what I did. I took out the beer can, wiped the moisture off it, placed it back, and did not give a second glance to the cookies. No, not even I drink at 8AM. 8:30, may be, but definitely not eight.

So I came back and checked the time on the computer, just to be sure, and it told me it was Saturday, and not Friday and that I did not have to go to work. I cursed my bad decision with the beer, but let it pass, logged on to twitter and expressed the wish for a burger. No one picked my call. That was when I realized that the McDonald’s at Infinity does not open till 11am. But, of course, the Bikaji Food Junxon next to it is, and that was where I found myself a few minutes later, having passed a few Honda Citys who seemed to have played Holi with other Honda Citys, and whose owners, for some strange reason, seemed to think that green Holi colour streaks on their cars seemed to go quite well with their dust-covered white exteriors.

Anyway, so there I found myself with a plate of Chhole Bature and a plate of Puri Bhazi, staring in the eyes of a beautiful girl who was two tables cross from me just about to tuck in a plate of pao-bhaji when the sight of my breakfast seemed to disturb her. I gave her the evil eye and tucked into my breakfast, and she returned to her butter soaked, unhealthy, too-heavy-for-so-early-in-the-morning-god-knows-how-such-people-live thing. Fifteen minutes later, I looked up and fell in love with her.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, she was reading. With her breakfast! I was immediately transported into a dreamland where I was already on the fourth of fifth date with her, pictures of she and I sitting in a corner table in Oh Calcutta, deferring service for a few hours while we sipped our beers, absorbed into our novels, not speaking a word to each other, already flashing in my mind. And then she decided to lift the book up from her thigh and prop it on the table, and I saw it was Immortals of Meluha, a monstrosity it had taken me some seven months from purchase to completion. Heartbroken, I finished my breakfast and left.

If any youngsters are reading this post, remember, this is why you should not wake up early on Saturday mornings. The office does not serve breakfast.