Twenty Days to Go

Amidst a raging recession, it's said that the smart thing for people to be doing is to bury their heads in work and forget the rest. Everyone seems to be listening. But me? No, siree! Not me. I decide to jump off the other end. That's right. I put in my papers. Quit. Gave up my comfy, well paying, easy and effortless job. For what? You ask. To finally do what I want. That's what.



I'm going to the best J school in the country to learn how to write. It's nothing short of borderline suicide. Trust me, I know. I will die trying to cope with the workload; if I haven't already drowned in my sweat and died by then, that is. Considering that its Chennai, I'd actually bet on it. But the point is that I'm still willing.



I might drop out of the course midway. I might top the class and end up a penniless journalist. I might learn that writing is not really my cuppa tea. Or I might just do alright. Every which way, it's an acceptable risk. It's time I found out how good I really am.



All the idealistic bullshit aside, leaving home is going to be *gulp* tough. I already know all the things I'll miss about Hyd. That is not counting work, Amen, home and metered autos amongst them. Because, then I will weep. And, O' my Buddha! The apple of my eye. The cherry on my cake. The love of my life. How do I leave thee? How?

*Sniff*

But yes, yes, I know. The show must go on.

And, go on, it will.