I am living alone now.

My darling sister, who shared this apartment with me for last 3 years and ran it almost like clockwork, got married last month and is now off to her in-laws. While she was here she used to chide me on how I'd miss her when she's gone and I used to laugh it away saying, "What is it that you do and I can't?"

Now, as I type this, I look around and feel stupid. There is an ashtray (well, actually, a bowl... the real ashtray is full to the brim and lurking somewhere in the shadows of the window sill) next to my worktable, a bottle of J&B giving it company, my clothes from last 4 days are occupying prime real estate on the bed and my books are lazing around in blissful disharmony. The maid had come in yesterday but I had to turn her away since it was too early in the morning (about 7 a.m.) and now I am waiting for her to return today in time for me to leave for office at 9.

I have always wanted to live alone, if only to enjoy ‘freedom’ but after I have got it for the first time, I wonder who or what this ‘freedom’ is from. Those of you who know me from my previous blog will know that I have spent most of my life in hostels – impersonal institutions where you either share a room, or a balcony or at least the toilet. When I began working, I wanted to live in a high-end area and my salary wouldn’t allow me to, so I had to share a flat. Then I moved to Delhi and my sister was studying here to it meant we would live together.

On the brighter side, (a) I can now invite all my bachelor friends for a session of drunken revelry followed by a decadent orgy; (b) I can get home that elusive aunty who I had been planning a trip to Kathmandu with; (c) I can wear my birthday suit while I do the household chores. But these possibilities look remote as (a) I’m not one for orgies; (b) I haven’t found that aunty and (c) its too cold in Delhi to even think of peeling off your clothes!

So, here I am at home alone. Guess I’ll get married now. That I’m “30 and counting” helps.