Closed for stocktaking. Come back tomorrow.

We had a talk last evening. In the kitchen. My father and I. I was back from not watching a play. 'Banabhatta ki Atmakatha'. Stupid listings had the show timings wrong. The parking lot at Kamani was dead. The weather wasn't. All lovely, breezy, non-rainy-but-could-be-rainy so we just 'hung' - went to Wengers after 4 to eat mushroom patties fresh out of the oven, and before taking the metro back home, I climbed a park fence to take my yearly photos of Amaltas - that if you notice, are getting better. 

Anyway. We, my father and I, had just split a profusion of tomatoes on a brown base i.e a home made pizza created by my mother. Are you going to eat the WHOLE thing? No, no, here, take half. After which I was in the fridge looking for a square of non-fattening dessert -- the dark chocolate, 85% cocoa (Lindt has a deal on at Le Marche -- all dark about-to-expire chocolates are two for one). I offered him a piece and he said no, that's too much and I said just eat it, it's low sugar.

So it's like this. I'm in my kaftan. Chilled water in a green ex-wine glass bottle in one hand, tip of the chocolate square in my mouth, whole chocolate in other hand, nudging fridge door shut with my foot, when he says, what's plan C ?

Note: context = employment. Plan A and B = newspaper and magazine respectively that I should hear from shortly. Whether or not they hire me remains to be seen.

Plan C.. plan C.. hmm... I don't know... cliff?

Now, my father is supremely indulgent of my nonsense. Neither is humour wasted on him. I believe I get from him my ability to stay unruffled if we're going to miss a train or are already missing a wallet. That and my powers of self deprecation. Who else do you know who cracks jokes about how only a total sucker would read his book?

Things like that.

So while generous daddy DID smile at my inane reply, I sensed he wanted me to stop and think. So down we sat, chocolate and all. Opening lines were spoken. He said sensible things. Somewhere he added, I'm talking to you like a friend. That was a new one. There were others, too.

You might want to think of a plan, child.. cliff no good...

... look outside, why limit yourself to the industry you've been exposed to?

... I know you'd like to stick to writing.. why don't you work on a short story? More freelance?

... may not be a bad idea to study... don't worry about the money.. I'm not saying do an MBA... finish your masters... no? Alright alright! Start from scratch.. chose a subject you're more comfortable with..

... just as a matter of conversation, where do you see yourself in five years? in both your professional and personal life... sometimes it helps to think aloud...

I didn't think anything aloud, but what Sonia Gandhi called her inner voice, was mumbling something about FIVE YEARS?! I have no bloody clue! Next month is looking desperately wan at the moment, ne'mind unimaginable time frames right now!

I did though say, yes, OK, I'll think about it, g'night, pa and then put on Desperate Housewives. But obviously something stayed.

Five years.. five years.. I should have a better camera in 5 years. Especially when, really, what's the point? Amaltas will still be Amaltas. Pretty is pretty. So maybe only a marginally better camera. How can this be all the depth I am capable of?

 

Five years, job wise? - something writerly enough, impressive enough, stress free enough, free time enough. I'm not worried about getting a job. It's what I told my father. I'll get a job. Income will resume. As will mediocrity, says the joker in doubt's clothing. Skies will be pink again. My worry is more, what I do in the free time, post job, when the bell rings and freedom is mine to embrace. Refer 'writerly enough'. But first things first.

My personal life, as my father calls it, is, let's be honest, in a flux. Marriage? Toss a coin. Babies? Toss them. It's difficult to remain certain for too long. Doubts abound. Then they disappear. Then they return. I play hide and seek with my doubts. We're friends, really. Table for two. Still or sparkling? Regular, please. Thanks. Why order fancy when what you want is to drown your companion?
I have no bloody idea what I want for myself in five years.

It's like being sucked back in time. I'm wearing a brown uniform and am in the ninth standard again. N and I are sitting outside class on dusty cement thereby dirtying our skirts in the most passive way conceivable. We have a free period because the history teacher, Mrs Wilson, has finally, for once, hallelujah!, taken the day off.

As always, we're carrying our ink pens and school diaries. For emergency scribbles. We're discussing a supposedly more mature version of what do you want to be when you grow up. N says she wants to go study at LSE. I have no bloody idea what LSE is. In her slam book under ambition, I have written journalist/ wildlife photographer. (Not bad self actualisation, we agree now). Where do you see yourself in twenty years, N asks me. I don't know, I say. I want to have really nice plates and be able to cook in olive oil everyday. This is my answer. I'm 13.

Fast forward to school, college, work, brown uniforms, history teachers. I'm 26. I don't know if I think all that differently -- olive oil? ceramic plates? Still pretty high up on my list. I don't know if late bloomer means developing something that resembles ambition in your early thirties. Does it? Maybe. Who knows. Conversely, in five years, plan C might still be a cliff. Maybe. Who knows.