دانلود رمان انگلیسی “خیلی خوبه که درست باشه”

It’s been an interesting Monday. At 7.30 a.m., when I shuddered awake to the doorbell and sleepwalked to the door, I should have known that Raghu Kaka, our milkman, would have forgotten to leave the milk packet in the basket I’d suspended from the top of the door and left it on the floor instead. Again. And that our neighbour Mhatre Kaka’s cat would have torn into the packet and licked the milk sloppily off the floor. AGAIN. Clearly Shanta Tai was running late, or it was usually her shrill ‘Didi, uth jaoooo’ sharp at 7.20 a.m. that worked as my morning alarm. I slammed the door shut and headed into the shower. Slightly refreshed, I made chai (black, just like I hate it), decided to have breakfast at work, snatched up my book from the bedside table and tote off the wardrobe knob, and dashed out the door. Traffic was crazier than usual as I flagged down a reluctant taxi. An unexpected off-season shower the night before had turned the city to mush and citizens were now left to deal with it. I loved how surprised and underprepared Mumbai always was for the rains. It was like, every year when the first rain clouds threw their dark shadows over the terrain, the government responded with, ‘Waterlogging? Oh, but that never happens here. Let’s decide on MAP (Monsoon Action Plan) 10000.0.’ This was followed by lousy attempts to remedy the situation by digging the city inside out and hastily filling it back, only so that the rainwater could find new ways to clog it up good and proper the next time around. Every year the city struggled with floods, potholes and waterlogging, and yet we romanticized the first rains the following year like nothing better ever existed. I don’t know if you can tell, but I’ve never been a fan of the rains. Especially untimely ones, the ones I don’t have the chance to mentally prepare for—or have my gumboots ready for. Deep breaths, Avani. Everything gets better when you get to your favourite place in the whole world. The bookstore. I paid the taxi driver and stepped out. I remember Rhea laughing in my face when, a little over a year ago, I’d offered to work at the billing counter at her family’s age-old bookstore, gloriously named Bombay Bound, in the heart of south Mumbai. Part-time, I’d told her, before my classes began at uni in the afternoons.