After such a long, unsettled holiday marked with travelling the world, working and surfing the internet, finally yesterday life became normal. Normal in the same sense that Douglas Adams' stories are normal, that is: in my life, things seldom become more normal than that.

The day started as I woke up early - at ten o clock in the morning. Had I not arranged to meet with a friend that day, I probably would have slept onwards until the afternoon, because I had stayed up late into the early hours of the morning watching Dil Hai Tumhara. Most people, I suppose, would have also stayed up late - but at a club or a party. The film lingered in my mind like the aftertaste of mint tea. Yes, it was everything most people don't like about Bollywood - over-sentimental, cheesy, and as near to reality as South Africa is to India. But I actually found myself wishing I had taped the film. I suppose this is similar to a chocoholic wanting to have a box of bars under the bed.

After a quick breakfast of the previous night's leftovers, I put a cassette into the VCR and set it to record Eastern Mosaic - the Indian magazine show in South Africa which was showing scenes from the IMMY awards that day. I still had to get ready and meet my friend at the cinemas in half an hour, so I couldn't sit down to watch it myself. 

I arrived early at the mall, so with fifteen minutes to spare I headed to the bookstore. What I particularly liked about this bookstore was the fact that virtually all the staff were Indian. This, mixed with my interest in writing, had made me submit a CV some months ago, only to find out that they had no room for part-time employees. On duty at the time that I entered were the owner and a cute girl for whom I had shrewd intentions for the day. The minute he saw me the owner smiled.
"Namaste!" I called. "Aap kaise hai.n?"
"Accha," he nodded. "Aur aap?"
"Bahut accha," I answered. That was the first conversation I had with him that went well. I perused the dictionaries for a Hindi-English one, but not finding one, went over to the magazines.
About ten minutes later I went up to the cinemas to meet my friend - only to receive a call from her that she would run a bit late, and with nothing better to do I headed back down to the book store. On the way down, I found the girl ascending the escalators. Pretending to read the advertisement on a photo-shop, I prepared for my shrewd and cunning plan. Once she had risen to my floor, I turned to her.
"Sorry, I just wanted to say that you look distinctly like Rani Mukherjee," I said.
"Oh," she mumbled. "Thanks." She stared at me as if I had told her that I was from a small planet near Sirius and wanted to see her leader. What exactly prevents women from accepting factual statements?

I only had to wait a short while for my friend to arrive. Like me, she lives a life that Douglas Adams would appreciate: she's fascinated with all fields of the esoteric and will only befriend people who are in some way crazy or strange. I see her one day telling a man, "Sorry. I don't date normal people." We were still in time for the 12:15 - show, and hurried to the cinemas.
"Two for Water," I said. The clerk stared at me as if I was not merely from the vicinity of Sirius, but also had four arms, all of which were a different colour.
"Ok," she took a deep breath. "Are you sure you'll enjoy it?"
"Yes," I responded. She shrugged and printed the tickets for us. I told my friend of the previous time I had come to watch a film: I had applied for a movie club-card, and the clerks marvelled at my signature - written in Devanagari. They had decided - never mind  my distinct South African accent - I must be from India. Now, fooling Israelis who don't often meet Indians is one thing - but fooling South Africans who should recognise a fellow countryman is another altogether.

Contrary to the clerk's surprise, there were actually many firengis watching Water. The fact that it is far more an intellectual film than Dil Hai Tumhara probably attracted those with an aye for intelligent films. Indeed, I found the film something of a documentary, yet it was excellently done and was very moving.

After the film I invited my friend over for some chai. I suppose any other normal person would have invited her over for coffee, but as I explained above, she would probably not accept. Of course, for a Firengi to try make Indian delicacies is one thing... but for one to try making authentic Indian chai without all the proper ingredients, and having never tasted the real thing either, is quite another! I am thus rather modest of my chai, although my friend gave her compliments.

After she left, I spent the rest of the late afternoon chatting to a Punjabi over the internet, marvelling at her natural beauty while she continued to try and make herself appear fairer and dye her pitch-black hair brunette, while exchanging Hindi music. Eventually, around midnight, we decided to log off. I finished an email to Kashmirah explaining some information I found on becoming an Ayurvedic doctor - her daughter's considering it, but is not sure she wants to spend six years studying alone in India. My intention was merely one of kindness, but I am aware that it is undoubtedly fixing more determination into Kashmirah and speeding the path of a ring towards a finger on my left hand.

Twelve o clock on a Sunday night - most people would be asleep. But not me. I was sitting at my desk, Snell and Weightman's Teach Yourself: Hindi in front of me, a pen in one hand, the other hand holding down a book as I finished writing notes on the future tense in Hindi. One o clock in the morning. What better way to finish the day off than with a book - River of Gods. It's not a great book, but it is an intriguing science-fiction and I spent a rather substantial amount of money on it in London. Of course, there is one reason I bought it - the cover reads, "August 15 2047. Happy birthday, India."