My mind is a funny thing. The minute it realizes I plan to sleep it starts thinking of
People who I used to love, but now hate.
People who hate me (most probably).
People who died on me (no one should be allowed to do that).
People who are living and whom I continue to neglect.
Shahrukh Khan (he is the same age as me, and paying 27 crores advance tax, and I’m still wondering how many zeroes there are in a crore).
The increasing perimeter of my bald spots.
The rolls of fat on my frame (will I lose them in this lifetime?)
The newest hair on my chin.
Dhanno (what will I do when she leaves home?)
Teja (what will I do if he stops loving me?)
My mother (what will I do when she dies?)
My friends (remote in the real world, living across continents, cities, traffic jams)
My social skills (or lack of, therewith. A flagellating analysis of exactly how boring I am in company)
Myself at 16 (can’t I, can’t I, can’t I go back, please?)
I’m sorry to report that my head doesn’t think of
Social and economic inequality
Or any of the things that I like to think I think about in the daytime.
Anyway, so, I pretend to my mind that I have no desire to sleep. I lie with my head propped up against the pillows, as if I’m reading. The bedside lamp is on. My eyes are open. I roll words over in my mind, relentlessly, as if it’s a book I’m never going to put down. And the mind, deceived, exhausted, finally falls off to sleep. So what if I have a crick in the neck in the morning. I’ve found a cure for my insomnia.