Melodrama at dawn

My consciousness fades in and out, finally submitting to an uneasy sleep around 1.30 in the morning. My hard won slumber interrupted by the sounds of heavy shuffling that suddenly turns into an assault of stampeding wildebeest. My brain struggles to cope with the sudden variance in decibel levels, as the unexpected sounds of the chink of china collides with the gush of water into the kettle, the abrasive sound of casters over tiles and the slam of the fridge. My mind blinks in confusion, hand pawing at the mobile. 04:07 indifferently blinks back at me. So, this is what dreaming is all about. The whistling of the kettle arrogantly cuts through the pretended protection of the duvet, even as the toaster mocks me with a resounding thunk. I'm reminded of the college canteen, usually harbinger of happier memories, but now, I'm thinking of expelling all those who inhabit it.

My brain tries to make sense of my bewildered senses, as another set of shuffle enters the fray. The sound of crockery is more enthusiastic as my aunts lilting drawl mingles in the air (WWII would have ended a lot sooner if Hitler had to combat this voice...). A most peculiar request for 'kapor kachhbar shaban' turns a traumatic morning into an episode of saas bahu, as a voice laced with tears sniffles, 'nothing I do is ever good enough', before disappearing to clucking noises. What the fuck? My senses are now in shock, unable to decide whether to remind people of my presence or continue to mimic the furniture. I borrow in a little deeper in the hope that the dream will mercifully terminate. 'Here you are', the voice takes command over the tremble. 'tomar jaa kichu chai' Ook. While I will be the first to agree that melodrama is in our genes, to have such an earth display of it at the crack of dawn in Maida Vale is surreal to say the least.

The sounds of a middle class deshi household waking up at the crack of dawn. Chesty coughs, unhurried, intractable voices of discontent, wearing you down, oblivious to the tortured form on the sofa desperately invoking the gods of PLEASE make them disappear. My delicately poised equilibrium picks up the sound of more shuffling in the background as the uncle heads to the bathroom. They've broken me. I get up loudly, with and turn to the perpetrators with a distinct lack of grace, only to be greeted by, 'Do you want breakfast?', 'Did you sleep well?'. You've got to be f***ing kidding me! My mouth is open but my lack of words unnoticed as the uncle launches into grumble about how one cannot sleep in London... My growing scowl matches my aggressive if somewhat uncertain stance as I desperately try to comprehend what my options are. Sister-in-law to the rescue. 'Why don't you go to my room and sleep?' I make a feeble stab at decorum, 'Are you sure?' but my feet are already edging in that direction, and before she can complete her assent, I make a dash for it...

My poor beleaguered cousin offers half the duvet and manfully stays in bed for another ten minutes before resigning himself to his fate and heaving out of the bed to face the folks. I'm determined to ignore the strident voices that waft down the hallway, the sound of the traffic, and the sudden appearance of the British summer streaming in through the window and snuggle in deeper into the bedding. Naturally, Somya picks this morning to shatter my hard won state of comatose with a quite unnecessary, 'What's up'. Me!! All fucking night!