Now that the resolutions are safely behind us, it’s time to get on with the new year. For, if we don’t, soon we shall be standing at somebody’s Christmas party wondering where the year went and what the hell did we do while not achieving anything? Well, when I say “we”, I mean mostly “all of you”; I have my work carved out for the rest of the year. This is what my busy roster looks like.
January-February: First things first, I am announcing a cleansing drive: no, not roads or parks, but vocabulary. It’s a nationwide epidemic. I’m going after people who use words like ‘issa’, ‘drip’, ‘dem’ — they’ll be on top of my hit list. Incorrect usage of words like ‘vibe’, ‘heat’, ‘rage’ and ‘gram’ or over-showing of ‘gratitude’ will also lead to culling. Dear annoying millennials, allow me to put it in a manner you may comprehend: “The struggle with stupidity is indeed real.”
March: Time to say adieu to winters, but the real chill is brought on by my annual finance meeting. I am made to bid goodbye to all the taxes I’ve been avoiding, except now they come cushioned with fines. Such a strange word to describe something I am certainly not fine with.
April: School is open. No, I don’t have kids. I know this because all my friends look positively relaxed.
May-June: You know how hot hell will be if you’ve lived in India for any stretch of these two months. So, the only plan is to GTFO. Anywhere is better. I am aiming for Europe, where my food moos cheerily as it grazes on grass and my wine purchases don’t require me to mug tourists. Also, half the year is over and nothing of any significance has been achieved. This is the first time we realise how lame our life really is. Again, when I say “we” here... You get it.
July: It comes right after my summer sojourn in happier climes, and from the time I land in India, all I do is perspire. So much humidity, but still not enough to wipe away my tears of disappointment as I pass immigration and am accosted by the glitzy plastic charms of our local duty free.
August: My birthday month, my actual new year, if you think about it. This is when my body clock truly resets; when I should be making my resolutions, measuring up my achievements from last year. With each year the gap between the potential me and the real me, along with my girth, widens. Birthdays, in that sense, are no more a festive time, but a grim reminder you set on your phone for tasks you’d rather not be reminded of.
September: This is the month of hope. It signals that change is not too far, that soon the weather will turn, there will be festivals and weddings. The promise of free food and drink will enliven most souls. If somehow all this could happen without having to meet people and telling them our plans — socialising, I think they call it — I think the world would be a happier place.
October: This is another dull spot, pile it up there with July. It’s so sad that even Oktoberfest historically decided to take place a month earlier.
November-December: If I make it this far into the next year — what with all that polluted air inhaled through the year — I plan to throw a birthday bash for the lady of the house. Putting up with me requires fortitude that even I have trouble exhibiting most days of the week.
This column is for anyone who gives an existential toss.