A Kurti And And A Backpack
I’m finally on the flight but it’s never that easy.
Tragedies always have to take place especially when it’s with me. My mom’s been pestering me to pack my luggage since the last four days, and me being myself, couldn’t care less. I just knew, whatever happens, I’d always throw in some clothes last minute. Oh damn, I just remembered I forgot my toothbrush. That’s an oxymoron and a sentence that frequents my head quite often.
I have emergency money just to get myself a funky panda shaped toothbrush or something like that.
So anyway, I gave my kurti last night to the tailor to get some hooks and buttons on or something. That kurti also happened to be the most intricately designed piece that I possessed, not to forget expensive and pretty and all other such adjectives that might be racing (or not) through your mind presently.
This morning, when I woke up, I didn’t have the usual excitement running through my veins, or even the ‘I’m-going-to-have-a-grand-time’ jitters making me go all fuzz in the head. It felt like any other day, wake up with a smile, look around the dark room for half a second, and then smile at the comfort of my blanket and cuddle up further.
I couldn’t waste time though; I had an early morning flight to catch. I have no idea about the obsession my parents have for booking early morning flights. My mom’s like all the cool corporate people travel on those. And even before reaching the airport I’d already realized that I’d be the only cool person around.
Duh, I was right P
But even before that entire hullabaloo, just as I was zipping up my suitcase, I realized that the kurti that had been given to the tailor the previous night, was missing. Actualization: It was still with the tailor.
Obviously, I told my mom, and the anxiousness began to kick in. It had taken me almost a week and a billion Indian clothes to finally come across that dress that complimented me so well. And to think that I had to leave the city in an hour, as thoughts of me not being able to wear it for the final function inundated my mind.
Solution 1: We’ll wait for someone else to take off from here and maybe they could carry it.
Solution 2: Since the tailor’s workshop was on the ground floor of the very same building, we could try breaking the lock and stealing what was ours.
Solution 3: *Uhhh, knuckle crunching, “Drink your milk already, we’re late!” *DAAAAMN!*
Brainwave!: Call up the tailor, and ask him to rush and hand it over!
I’m excited. At least I’m getting back what was mine. So in between all the rushing and the screaming and getting nervous and popping Deanxits (haha, I know I’m mean mom!) the tailor finally woke up from his slumber and as I ran down the stairs with my backpack, he opened his karkhana and took it out.
“I’ll shove it in my backpack. The luggage’s all packed.”
So there’s this hot kurti that was destined to be mine and Jazz in my backpack. And there are French people on the flight. So I think I’ll go apply my language skills now.
A bien tot!
x EdgyShark x