|The Time Traveler by ~xetobyte|
I feel a tad wonky lately. Because I want to go home. I've drawn up a chart - you know shit is serious when I draw up a chart - on my little white board: a little calendar-countdown to the day I'll get on a plane and fly away. Exactly 46 days to go.
I called up G, a fellow Sri Lankan stranded among Indians, and we talked for more than an hour about the beautiful people back home and the katta sambol and the kiribath. And we heaved perfectly synchronized sighs.
When there's only about a month till you get to unforeign yourself and go back to where you come from, everything around you changes instantly. The Indians are all annoying now and the places I was crazy about here have suddenly taken on a mediocre tinge. I'm irritable and withdrawn, because my body and mind have noticed there's barely a month to go and so 'it's time' now to leave, and they're really pissed off at me for not hurrying up. And I'm really pissed off at Time for the same. So you see it's all a very mad, sordid affair. Last night I dreamt of pol sambol. Waking up was painful.
My cousin studying in Pakistan gets to fly back home tomorrow. Why? Because of a brain-eating amoeba epidemic. I kid you not. Pakistan is just across the border from Delhi. So maybe if I help one of the victims of the zombie-amoebae-attack smuggle themselves over here, we could have an epidemic here as well, and I could go home early too! Naturally, I presume victims of these zombie-amoebae turn into brain-eating zombies, so all I need to do is find a brain, and lure the infected Pakistanis over the border.
I have exams in a few weeks, you know. And instead of studying I'm drawing up strategical charts for the smuggling of zombie Pakistanis. Wonky was an understatement.