Less traffic means life should move faster.
It doesn’t.

Even the cop at the Chembur checkpost sympathetically smiles in hi-speed.
Which, for the layperson, means slow motion.
S-l-o-w.

It’s 11 am.
Nariman Point bears a lazy look.

WTF – look on liftman’s face.
WTF – look on guard’s face.

Office is a mess.
They have ripped my cabin apart to build a new one.
Not their problem.
I wasn’t supposed to walk in today.

Two of the boys arrive. The rest follow in quick succession.

The carpenters are using rubber solution for the flooring.
Damn.
The smell reminds me of trainee days in McCann.

I tell the contractor this. He grins.

“Why do you want to shoot me? I don’t have an interesting face,” tells me one of the carpenter boys.

I shoot, neverthless.
I am woefully out of practice, I discover.

We break for lunch.

Work drags. Overboiled tea arrives from outside.
The carpenter’s drill makes it impossible to hear my own thoughts.
Work looks good. We all split.

The roads look as empty on the way back.

The cop at the Chembur check post has gone home.

My boxer is unmoved. Still.

Daughter leaves for a party.
Leaving me with a cup of home-made tea.

There is no carpenter’s drill here.

I can now hear my thoughts.

So here I am.

Hello Sunday.