I have a tremendously sorted, boring routine. I walk to my office every morning (yes, walk) and walk back home every night. There are no major complications, no major happenings, not even traffic jams. I know what I am going to eat throughout my day but worse still, I even know how the canteen food is going to taste when I try to savor it hoping for it to be toothsome, tasty and somewhat pleasantly surprising. There are two restaurants outside the office campus and in past one year, I have learnt the taste of every item on their menu. Hell, the waiters even give me credits these days, talk politics with me and stuff.
The saddest part about my life is, I hardly get to be sad. I barely get to think about how I am feeling, what I am doing with my life, whether I am in some sort of existential crisis or not. It is all just so routine and redundant.
This is where weekends come in handy. I cook at least once every weekend. It is not really much of anything, some plain rice, some cheap curry that gets ready sooner than a man pees, and maybe pickles.
During the preparation of this meal, I get to cut onions. Ah! Onions! Nature’s gift to the non-emoting bastards like me. For so many months now, I look forward to the weekends, to be able to meet my onions, to cut them, to be able to cry with them. I keep intact all my melodramatic self, all my emotions of sorrow and joy, that build over the week and let them flow as tears when I cut onions.
I know they are going to make me weep, sob, snort and cry; hence, I make every bit of this meeting useful. I rant about my grievances about the world, about my mediocrity in terms of claiming to be a ‘writer’, about people who never call, text or WhatsApp me (really, no one does). The onions listen, while I gently strip them, slit them into pieces, taking out their life in slow motion. In return, they give me my tears, much needed tears, which I don’t shed for the onions’ demise but are almost heartfelt.
Whoever said you can’t buy emotions must come to my place sometime and meet my onions, they come cheaper than a packet of milk.