Cockroach Number 4

The inevitable has happened. Good-fucking-lord. The matchbox warmly welcomes Cockroach Number 4. It was bound to happen, a matter of when rather than if even though I kept delooding myself. The landlady won't be happy until she stuffs as many cockroaches into the matchbox as she can. Like that ekkssperiment where you stuff cockroaches inside a jar and screw the lid on tight. I think we know how that one ends.

So we introduce ourselves as 'journalists almost'. Me because I'm a few months away from landing a job and him because he's taking a break from the Outlook to re-think his career. What a nutcase. If I were him I wouldn't be too happy to have as a roommate a kiddo scribe when I'm trying to run away from the tribe for a bit.

Scribe or not, for me he's competition. And I hate competition here. For my slot in the bathroom every morning and my spot on the clothesline. We got a problem if his out-time each morning clashes with mine. As for the clothesline, I owe those reeds. In this place, it pays to mark your presence there, not only does it mark your territory but it also indicates that you really prefer your clothes clean.

I don't remember his name. Sandeep or something. See, I don't give a shit. He sings a lot, probably the next Kishore Kumar in his head. But then, show me one Indian who doesn't think the same and I'll show you an Indian with no ambition. Either that, or an Indian who doesn't give a shit about Kishore Kumar. I can live with that. Right now, he's snoring away that cockroach is and he's made himself at home in our matchbox.

Why cockroach? It's because the critter scurries about real fast without giving itself time to acknowledge or get used to its pathetic surroundings. Just as well that it doesn't, add that to the weight of the world and you got yourself a mess in your head. It's a quality I admire right now. I don't mind being a cockroach, only without the feelers. Those creep me out.