One of the older women looked at the bird and then passed out on the living room floor.

It was an unbelievable half hour while I explained what had happened.

Some of the older Patels seemed to think that I was definitely about to cook some hideous non-vegetarian dish in the kitchen. But I quickly reminded them that there was no gas, let alone a stove, in the kitchen and the only way to consume the bird, at that point in time, was to eat it raw.

One more elderly Patel crumpled to the floor.

Normalcy returned when Viral walked into the kitchen and then explained that the pigeon was probably killed by the fan. Sure enough there was a red mark on one of the blades. I was relieved. Viral seemed satisfied and told me to close all the windows. Always. But some of the Patels still looked unconvinced as they left the flat to their new tenant.

The service lift wasn’t working and I had to carry the bird down six flights of stairs in my hands before burying it in a patch of earth behind the empty swimming pool.

Again no time to buy furniture this weekend. Perhaps tomorrow if I get off work early.

27 May 2006

7.23 p.m.

Exciting times!

We are going to have our orientation programme next week at the Taj Exotica in Goa!

Awesome!

That means a week of four-hour lecture sessions during the day followed by group exercises till tea, lazing on the beach and then dinner followed by an open bar.

I can’t wait.

The invitations were sent to everyone in personalized envelopes with handwritten notes from ‘Srikumaran Nair, VP-HR’. He even signed off with the words ‘Happy Hangovers!’

I bet no one in HLL or P&G has events like those.

Dufresne rocks!

Since it clearly sounded like Srikumaran was in a good mood I sent out my hotel laundry, minibar and breakfast bills to him via courier. I added a note to tell him that it was all a misunderstanding.

Time to buy furniture from Dadar.

Bye.

9.15 p.m.

I am heartbroken.

There I was at Dadar, bargaining with a complete swindler over a small steel almirah, when Gouri Kalbag walked by with a fellow. His arm was slung over her shoulder and she had one of her hands tucked into one of the back pockets of his jeans.

I called after her but she didn’t seem to hear. So I ran up behind them and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around looking a little disappointed.

Perhaps she was in a bad relationship with this brute and seeing me had evoked thoughts of ‘What if it had been Robin Varghese’s pocket with my hand in it? Alas!’ in her mind. Understandable.

He was a tall chap with visible biceps and triceps. (Some type of manual labourer perhaps.)

We exchanged greetings and she told me that she dropped her New York plans and joined a boutique Australian investment bank at Nariman Point. Apparently she has been given a flat at Khar—awesome!—and started going to work just two days after the convocation.