Everyday.

There comes a time in life, actually a recurring theme in mine every few weeks, in which one thinks: What am I doing with my life? Happened to me when I was sitting beside the chilly Hussain Sagar Lake in Hyderabad, watching the catamarans and yachts bobbing on the water while I pondered my existence. I'm in my mid-20s. As a kid, I thought I'd have been famous by now, have published a book, bought a swanky car and home. Well, it turns out I could have done all this if I was an actor, singer, celebrity or a Big Boss inmate (fame comes naturally to them). But I'm none of the above.

So what am I doing with my life? Simply living it. From time to time, I write about things I care about -- football, working on an interesting story I actually loved pursuing. Writing it, being in the zone so much so that 3,000 words tumble out in the space of two hours. But most of the time, I'm writing things I don't care about at all, about sports I don't understand and things that no one will ever read. Most times, I'm taking meaningless orders from my editor (who really seems to dislike me, or just does not care), filling up the rest of the magazine space (for which there are no bylines), working on proofreading and correction and production schedules, those advertising booklets that have a penchant of descending in hordes together; all this time watching major stories pass me by because I'm considered either immature or not trusted enough to pursue them.

So what am I doing with my life? Well, for starters I know how to juggle home and work. I'm an expert at telling the prices of vegetables, fruits and essential items, awesome at bargaining with frustrated shopkeepers, brilliant at yelling at rickshaw/auto drivers when they demand more of my "hard-earned" money. I'm an expert at knowing which metro train to take at what hour, so as to avoid the rush hour and office crowd madness. I know in which corner of the ladies' compartment one needs to stand in to avoid being stepped on, frowned at, called names as well. I'm an expert at keeping eye-contact with eve-teasers and oglers, knowing giving them a slow, up-and-down body-check is the only thing that averts their gaze from my body. I'm an expert at Gurgaon roads, knowing which ones to avoid (again, at what hour), which ones are full of potholes, and how much time it will take someone to cross the Delhi-Gurgaon toll booth. I now know that Pril liquid detergent cleans dishes better than Vim soap and does not leave ugly marks when the utensils dry up. I know how to shoo away different kinds of pests, from ants and bees to lizards and assorted bugs. I know how to deal with the lecherous chap who comes to deliver the LPG cylinder whenever I run out of cooking fuel, slyly checking out my boobs even though I have made enough effort to cover my chest with a dupatta. I'm an expert an fixing electrical glitches in the house, tubelights, bulbs, wires, sockets, stringing together fairy lights, lamps, etc. I'm streetsmart and rough.

But at times, through this daily drudgery, I manage to catch up with the French I'd learnt during college. To polish my slowly dying (and dead brain cells). Or pick up the pencil and doodle on the notepad, maybe sketch a wee bit in my book. It's quite a relief to escape from the everyday monotony. But it never happens for long. Another day starts and I am on the track yet again -- arguing with auto drivers, finding my corner on the train, sitting at my workstation and listening to Muse and Owl City to keep me going, helping me to not lose my sanity, and generally completing the tasks I am supposed to.

Song of the Day: Starry Eyed Surprise (Paul Oakenfold)