One finger

I type on a second-hand laptop, a steaming cup of tea (yeah…I’m not in2 coffee…and no, it ain’t a sacrilege) by my side for internal tranquility and external warmth and with one eye on the blinking tube light. Almost Dom Moraes type, I type mostly with just one or two fingers. The rest linger restlessly over the keyboard, waiting for the chance to hit upon a letter…which never comes.

There are two bottles of mineral water standing like sentinels on either side of my bed. Why, you ask? Because I don’t know which side of the bed I’ll wake up on and when I need that blessed drink, I don’t want to turn to the other side. It’s too much work. A horde of books lie on a stand in complete disarray, some read, some waiting to be read. Clothes hang limp from a hook like they have been sentenced to suffer their fate. You may say nothing’s in order…I say it’s ‘chaotic order’ the kinds only I know. The drone of the old AC and the one blinking tube light are something I’ve gotten used to by now (each time, the landlord replaces one blinking tube light with another). The Venetian blinds are drawn ‘full down’ because it’s 12 midnight and I’m freaked out by shadowy things creeping up on me, even my own shadow at times. The TV’s on the blink and I don’t feel like reading.

So here I am, with my second-hand laptop, typing with one finger.