I live in a corporate jungle called Belvedere Park. My apartment is just amongst the 270 odd apartments situated in this multistory building complex. And I am one amongst the thousand plus of its resident. I believe the feeling of being part of a society ends here. I don’t know the name of my neighbor and doubt if they could say anything different about me. I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t know about my existence altogether. I will still give them benefit of doubt. After all, anyone can guess that an apartment is occupied by seeing at the fresh news paper lying in front of its door every morning.
I get up every morning listening to the screeching sound of our door bell. It’s our maid. We have instructed her to not leave any stone unturned to wake us up every morning at 6:45am. She comes from some far away locality. I wonder how she managed doing it day after day without fail during those chilly winter mornings.
Every time I enter the building complex, the guard at the entrance looks at my face carefully and tries his best to record a picture of mine in his memory. It’s a tough job. There are just too many of us. Our nomadic ways of existence that we fondly call ‘geographical mobility,’ have ensured that people from my tribe ‘the new age go-getters’ keep changing their abodes before the guards start finding a familiarity in our face. I pity those guards. They have not yet got themselves upgraded for linked-in age.
I eat, that is when I eat, at the nearest food court. Sometimes if I feel lazy, I order food from some of the nearby restaurants. It’s expensive and it’s inhuman. Sometimes I lose my appetite at the apathy that the restaurant boys and delivery boys show while providing me my food. How I miss my stay in Europe on such occasions. The warmth that the service people showed there was the main reason we survived 3 harsh months living on just bread jam, fruits and subways. Why am I complaining so much! I can cook and I should have done it when the things are so bad. I ask myself this question again and again. I cannot find a reasonable answer.
My apartment is on the 15th floor. From the balcony of my apartment, the car parking of our building complex appears to be a showcase filled with matchbox toys. I’m not a big fan of heights. It takes you away from reality. Time I spent in the lift is the most awkward of the moments of my existence here. I enter the lift. He (or she) enters the lift. If anyone is in the most brilliant of the moods, there will be a smile exchanged. And then there is silence. Nobody will speak even a single word. Wait for your floor, which in my case is the 15th (or actually just 14th as there is no 13th floor by design and vastu reasons) seems like eternity. Makeshift jogging track is a better place in that aspect. You see somewhat familiar faces there if you are regular. But, is regularity my thing? Well no!
There is more to my life than just the cribs above. Let me be very frank that I don’t blame it entirely on the people or the culture here. I am equally responsible for the way things are turning out to be. It’s a 6 month long transit break for me before I move on to the next location (which mostly will be a more permanent place, so to say). Life shall be more settled then. Till then, I will continue my tryst with Gurgaon.
These thoughts have been in my mind for long, just that today I got the enthu to pen them down for future reference.
