The last two days I’ve had are very tough to write about. There are too many things, too big in their ability to affect life and too small a capacity of words to express them. Day 5, and day 6 were a wind whirl. I could write forever and not sum up the events and feelings. But if I must, I want to start backward.
My little friend did my nails. I have always wanted to say “did my nails”, but did not know what that really meant. Never thought it worthwhile either. Today I do. She filed my nails into pretty pointy shapes, all 10 identical. I was unaware of the nails’ capacity to look pretty. Then she painted them blue.
We ate appams and Chettinads at my favorite south Indian restaurant for the first time after I graduated. Someone sent me a message telling me they learned how to send messages on Instagram so they could tell me how my posts affect their day. I sat at Murphies drinking beer in the afternoon, the best way I know to celebrate a holiday. Drinking beer in the afternoon is a declaration of a happy holiday. A claim of it.
I did my other favorite thing there. Eavesdropped on conversations and felt glad I am out of the teenage drama phase of my life. While doing one other thing I like – reading. I read an article about lives on Social media becoming real life. The article was pointedly blaming me for things, asking me to mend my ways. But there is so much in me to write about. About lessons I have learned by talking to children, by crying under trees, getting scratched by a cat, breaking a needle, lessons that won’t be complete till they are written about. I want to make a list of things that have made me happy in the last month, and share with you all the beautiful notes written in the beautiful books that were gifted to me. About beautiful tee-shirts that make sense, and about the joy on the body of a performer that rubs off on you. About my inability to wake up late, I usually wake up sleep-deprived and unable to fall asleep.
I woke up late. I woke up late because I was reading a book early in the morning. Right before which I was stitching the yellow top I have dreamt of stitching. I stitched it. I wore it. I saw all the flaws in it but mostly I saw that it was stitched and that I had been patient with it. It covered me and looked like a piece of clothing. It was done, not Perfec. And done was okay. I was proud of myself for feeling proud of myself. Being able to give me enough credit for doing something rather than being disappointed at all things I fall short of.
While I stitched I was not stitching with the will of a mad woman. I was stitching with songs playing in the background, with a glass of good whiskey poured for me at some point. I stitched as I talked to my friends who watched young Salmaan Khan be goofy with young Karishma Kapoor. I stitched when I came back from the office after I had somehow shed my sorrow at the window near my seat. I had discovered the art of love. That as adults, you sometimes have to ask for it. In my abandoned state of being, all I really wanted was not just to be given a hug and told I am cared for, but for people to know/guess to do that. I asked for the love I wanted.
I drank the darkest hot chocolate. I asked P to buy me chocolates. She bought me fancy chocolates that have never been bought for me. And then she put in a not-so-fancy one she knows I like. While I shed the sorrows, I was aware of the importance of mourning and being angry while I was, for the hurt to pass and reason to make itself clearly visible. I had a bad day at work. I woke up upset because I could not find a mason jar I bought at the patisserie last week. I went to work groggy and in a bad mood.
Day 6, R’s home, Vimananagar,
I read a teeshirt “hum jara jyada pite hai”
In my sister’s house, there is a joke book, a joke is read out of which every few minutes.
What goes ‘tap tap boom’ in a minefield? A blind man.