I need no alarm clock. My brother stays in the States. I, you see, have had the privilege, each morning, for the last 730 mornings, of waking up to the beep of a computer and the clack of keys. A bit after the sun is up, my gentle mother still not fully awake to the black and white print that lies on the table, shifts herself a stubborn keyboard that for all its Mercury and cohesiveness fails to keep sentences grammatically intact. No, my keyboard is not old. But as soon as you let your fingers loose on it, you'd figure that it's fit to be hung on Italian walls alongside the likes of the Mona Lisa. Quite a masterpiece in its own right, the keyed-up board consumes every first F, every alternate A and every third T that one tries to hammer out of it. Beeping computers and hammered keyboards aside, just what does my mother do while the sleepy crows spread their wings chasing their early morning snack? Well, like I said, my brother stays in the US of A. So, as a result of the sheer distance that separates mother and son, email is the most sought after wonder of modern science that Ma could get her hands on. Apart from the fact that mother needs to keep in touch with son, there are miscellaneous general bodies all over who need to know why brother is losing so much weight so fast and whether he eats at McDonald's after the beefy scandal. So Ma becomes official email receiver, sorter and sender. 7:00 am (IST of course) is the technological cock-crowing time. Irrespective of whether my morning follows a peaceful or a painful night. All my objections to rigid punctuality are drowned by the masterpiece being thrashed. A perplexed "there were 97 messages in the inbox yesterday Bhavna. There are two now. Why did you delete them?" A plank of the cosy cloud-home I was building comes crashing down. I open my eyes to a ceiling. A pathetic defence of innocence. Ninety-seven is a mad number to house. And although I didn't manually delete even one mail, psychically I've trashed the whole lot as soon as they've come in. Beauty specialists and finance merchants are species I can well do without. I pull a curtain of black velvet over my eyes. I'm chasing clouds once more. A thoughtful reminiscence and up wafts a "Did you send Shweta a mail?" A cloudburst and a shower of languid questions. Shweta who? Isn't she the one who hijacked and devoured all 30 pieces of the sinful milk Hershey's that bhai sent for his darling sister? No, I sent no Shweta a mail. I shall never send any Shweta a mail. Greedy glutton. What's her phone number? I'd like to speak to her mother. Curtains fall yet again. I stick a 'Stuff Silly Shweta' Post-It on to the pillow of white that floats past my eyes against the clear blue backdrop. A slightly hassled "Why must these emails always get stuck at 'Sending = 97%'?" Why must my dreams always be broken at 'Processed = 0.2%'? A mildly troubled "Send your bhai an email beta. You haven't spoken to him in a long time." I chatted with bhai last morning. Instant Messengers are like a child's cackle -- delightful. Bhai has bought his bread, still hates apples, will not eat eggs, has no time to make rice and all is well with the world. My cloud morphs itself into a carpet. I clamber on. Time to sail far away. Suddenly aware of the time, a "Get up now beta. It's 7:30." And I have to be at work by 9:30. Now unless I c-r-a-w-l around home getting myself in order, I will not need more than 55 minutes to make myself look presentable and yet reach work before time. So will someone tell me why I should lift myself off my golden carpet at 7:30 am when I've only crawled onto it three minutes ago? A fatigued sigh. And a "This keyboard! We need a new one." A double sigh and an I-need-a-new-life. Gentle fingers pound on for some more time, with occasional exclamations and concerned questions. I rock between a whole lot of worlds. Blue. White. Black. And Beeps. Final silence. And a jungle sound of exit. All emails delivered, all news shared, all headlines read, it's 7:44 am when Microsoft Windows gracefully allows one to safely enter Shut Down mode. Good night Ma. I'm climbing up to sleep in the loft of my cloud-home. No, I don't need cucumber sandwiches. Thank you. Love you. But I'm pulling the ladder up after me. Bhavna Giani just may sell off her computer one of these days. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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