如果我睡不够

I don't function well without sleep.  I never have.  It’s probably very entertaining to others to watch me fumble around trying to think coherently when I went to sleep at 11 and woke up at 3, but for me it’s excruciating.  I don’t know how I made it through college with this malady.  I can’t remember, because most of my time was spent in that sleep-deprived funk—which might explain the graffiti on Dudley Chancey’s office window…

I try to limit the number of days when the stupid things I’ve done can be blamed on my desperate need for sleep (and I’ve subsequently discovered that reducing the excuses does not reduce the amount of stupidity revealed).  From time to time it provides a nice defense though.  We left for the airport in Mumbai at 3am, for our flight to Jaipur.  Jiapur is an intriguing place full of tourist attractions but our main objective was to get out.  We were set on going to Jaisalmer to ride camels in the Thar desert.  Jaipur was just a stepping stone.

Optimistic at first, we strolled the streets in search of adventure.  We were delighted by the cattle ruling the streets, and fascinated still by the beauty of India.  Four hours of sleep quickly took its toll on my endurance though, and before long I was dragging my feet and longing only for a place to sit.

I was wearily plodding along wondering if Jessica was putting rocks in my backpack as we stepped, or if it was growing without any help from her.  All I could see was the brown of the road, the darker brown of the excrement on the road, and the lighter brown of the dust in the air when suddenly a glowing patch of green appeared before us.  I was certain it was a mirage but followed it anyway, through a dusty gate into paradise.  A beautiful green park opened up before us, bereft of prying eyes and bursting with sunshine.

Overcome with joy we threw our backpacks down in the grass and sprawled out in the sunshine to rest.  Jessica was soon asleep but cursed by my body’s hatred for napping I was forced to pull out a book to pass the time. 

About the time the hero of the story was going to commit murder I was interrupted.  “Excuse me madam?”  I looked up at the four boys who had walked by our temporary camp for the second time.  The one in the red suit with a red and white striped tie, emboldened by my attention, decided to get to know me.  “Your country madam?  Your good name madam?”  He fired question after question while the other three looked on.  He confessed to me that they were supposed to be in school but were skipping.  I asked him why the other boys didn’t talk and he said they couldn’t speak English.  We humored their curiosity for a while before turning our attention to resting again.

Soon the hero of the book I was reading had secured his standing in my mind as being morally deficient and I felt my eyes growing heavy.  I heard a familiar voice asking questions, and as I pried an eyelid opened I spied the same four boys, back to interview us again.  This time he wanted my phone number in India, China, or America—he wasn’t picky.  He settled for my email address.  Eventually the kid got tired of repeating everything he said three times until I understood him, and they wandered away.  I finished my book and we decided to look for a place to eat.

I’m usually pretty adventurous—some people might choose the word “insane”.  I’m typically not afraid of seedy-looking restaurants and dubious living conditions.  So when we found a restaurant called The Nice Café which advertised pizza, I decided to give it a try.  Sometimes hole-in-the-wall places are gold mines of undiscovered delicacies.  Sometimes they’ll make you regret your bravery.

The Nice Café had a nice rooftop with a nice view, where we ordered our nice pizza and nice lemon-soda.  I started feeling a little queasy when our nice lemon-soda came out and the glasses didn’t appear to have been washed in the last decade.  I did not feel nice about them.  When the nice pizza came out I took a deep breath and plunged in.  One bite was sufficient to let me know that I would not be able to coax myself to eat the rest of the pizza and keep my stomach intact.  I felt terrible knowing that the owner would see that I’d only eaten one bite of my pizza before leaving.  He was so…nice.

I sat for a while staring over the balcony and wondering what to do.  I had to avert my eyes when a guy stopped to relieve himself against the building, and my gaze fell on the drainage ditch below.  There were some desert shrubs growing up close to the building and I saw a vision.  The four hours of sleep was catching up to me, and any idea seemed like a good one, especially if it came from a dream.

I saw the pizza flying off the roof and making its escape to the drainage ditch below.  Covered by the bushes it would fulfill its destiny as food.  The animals that abound the streets would ensure that it was eaten, and I would be absolved of my guilt for not being able to.  The nice owner would think I’d eaten my fill and not be insulted by my poor appetite.

I looked around quickly and held the pizza like a Frisbee.   It flew just like the pizza in my vision.  I dusted my hands off and sat down triumphantly, thinking I had successfully avoided offending the cook.  The exultant smile was still flitting across my face when a worker appeared on the roof, marched to the edge, and looked over the balcony at the ground below.  He peered for a moment and then walked back to the kitchen.  He never said a word as I tried to sink into to dirt under me.

Probably the last word they’ll use to describe me at that restaurant is nice.  I tried to think of the least offensive way to not eat a bite of food and instead doubtlessly affronted their pride worse than any customer they’ve ever had.  The moral of the story is: never trust my judgment when I’m functioning on insufficient sleep.

“Many things--such as loving, going to sleep, or behaving unaffectedly--are done worst when we try hardest to do them.”
C.S. Lewis