the watermelon incident

So, I've always thought of myself as someone who can manage everyday operations, keep track of small inventories, optimize utilization, etc.

Basically, I thought I could run a bloody household fairly efficiently. And to be fair, I have managed pretty well so far.

When I lived with my parents, I managed the buying, stocking and dispensing of toiletries, cleaning supplies and other such materials. During my epic parties, I managed the buying and distribution of snacks, food and liquor. Even matches and lighters for the hapless smokers, who would stagger around, barely awake, at 3 am, trying to find me, so that I could locate a matchbox for them.

When I moved in with friends, I retained my reputation of ensuring that very little got thrown away, from leftovers to clothing. I'm a conserver, a reuser, a recycler.
I'm practically Captain Planet!

But every now and then, my superpowers are superseded by something monumentally stupid. Such as a watermelon.
One that has resided in the vegetable crisper of my fridge for no less than a quarter of a year. I kid you not.

This melon has witnessed the change of seasons. We bought it sometime in summer, and now that it's autumn, nearing winter, it still sits there in all its glory, mocking me. We planned to eat it. Truly, we did. We just never got around to it.

The most curious part is that it shows no signs of decomposition, at least on the surface.
I don't know what to do with it anymore. I'm too afraid that it has become sentient, or sprouted an ecosystem of its own. So I'm just avoiding the crisper altogether.

As I write this, the watermelon continues to occupy its place of pride in my fridge, an indubitable testament to my failure to adult.

Ginger naps

wound

Okay, this might sound enormously creepy to you, but I have a slight thing for wounds.

Let me clarify, I am no fan of large gashes or disembowelment (except in gore movies), nor am I an angsty self harm enthusiast.
Nope. notatall!

On the contrary, I try to avoid injury at all cost.
However, when the occasional unavoidable corporeal damage does occur, I am incredibly fascinated by the mechanism of it, and the efficiency with which my body heals itself.

Having a cat means being constantly subjected to affectionate nipping and games involving claws, which often result in gashes. I find myself carefully observing these small tears in my skin scab over and heal over the span of days, sometimes weeks.
I think it's beyond cool that cuts on my palms and fingers, that is, parts of my body that are constantly in use or in contact with objects, heal much faster than those on my forearms.

Blisters heal differently, a fine layer of skin forming under it, as the upper damaged layer slowly peels off. Burns are a different story, as are deeper cuts, which might scab over, but stay fragile underneath for days.

Hangnails are the devil's own invention, so are paper cuts. Both are tiny and deadly, all at once.

The newest addition to my small collection of wonders is a "blood blister", which resulted from accidentally pinching my hand in a door. It looks about as scary as it sounds.
Now to wait and see how it heals.

throwback

It's so strange to think that we are in different time zones!

That as I write this mail, you're probably still asleep.

Or maybe waking up bleary-eyed,

your sleep-blurred mind baffled by the new surroundings. 

Just for a few minutes, though.

After that, you'll be back to being the usual focused and self-possessed you, ready to take on a new city and a new day.

But it is for those few warm, fuzzy, lost minutes, that I long to be near you. Before you snap back into routine. 

humpty dumpty

Almost all my pets fall off buildings at some point in their lives.

It's like an unspoken agreement between them.
An implicit act of... solidarity? rebellion?
Who knows.
But they all fall down.

What makes this that much more ridiculous is that the majority of these tumblers are cats!
In the spirit of that morbid curiosity, which is touted to be the nemesis of the feline, they venture where they shouldn't, perch on precarious walls, and then proceed to roll off them.

Combined with the other unfortunate fact that I have mostly lived in upper floor apartments, this makes for small episodes of pure horror.

Notice cat is missing, search frantically for cat, fail to find cat, realise cat has fallen off building, find cat (often injured or bloody) at bottom of apartment/lower floor, proceed to nurse cat back to health so that you can slap it silly later on.

There was the one that landed on its feet, injured one of them, then crawled under a car to hide, making it that much more difficult for us to find him.

There was the one that fell five floors and smashed up his face so badly that I screamed when I saw him (he recovered, thank God!)

There was the one that fell off the balcony and rolled into the downstairs apartment, kept us up all night searching, then made us stage a daring rescue mission that involved walking across planks.

There was the one that fell four floors and broke his paw, which had to then be put in a cast for a month.

And then there was the genius who fell one floor down to the garden, hurt his leg and broke a tooth. :/

*sigh*

And they say cats are graceful.

lipstick

I have this weird, almost superstitious notion that wearing lipstick is a subtle but undeniable sign of being an adult woman.

I mean, wearing it in earnest. Not just slathering it on for super dressy occasions or costume parties.
I mean wearing it on a regular basis, to work, to parties and events, maybe even to movies and grocery shopping.

Choosing shades according to complexion, time of day, outfit and occasion.
Making that perfect 'O' with your mouth, then smacking your lips to even it out. Not using your fingers to clumsily wipe away smudges and spills. Doing it with a practiced hand. Like a pro.

I have done quite a bit of growing up these past few years.
Relationship, job, household...

But lipstick, man!
That bitch still eludes me.

scribe

After all these years of chronicling life in words, of mad scribbling, of writing myself back to sanity and serenity, after all this time composing worlds and wonders, fables and fantasies with the strokes of my pen, it is hard not to feel patronized when someone tells me to ‘just write’.

What do you know of writing?

What do you know about the power of words?

Nobody is privy to what has transpired between me and the pages of my journal, several hundred notebooks, sheets and scraps of paper, and even table napkins, old bills and bits of newspaper, when inspiration struck at odd times and places.

I have made love with words, spewed hate with them. I have grappled with grief, loss and my sense of self in odd, unfinished sentences, and then made my peace with life in lush stanzas and lines.

Writing is healing. Writing is pure magic.

It comes to me in sudden, unruly bursts.

I’m grateful for each one. I’m blessed.

Baoli

The fading light of the late afternoon sun slanted over the tops of the trees.

Like a deep green ocean beneath our feet.

Stretching to the limits of our line of vision.

Old minarets and ruined tombs rose from it. A lost city.

Majestic and mysterious.

There was poetry in the way the capital continued to buzz and bustle all around.

While this ancient island of stillness and silence sat unmoved in the midst of it.

Always at an arm’s reach, but out of sight.

So well hidden, that we almost missed it.

And on that terrace, the city of Delhi sprawling below us, growing farther away with each passing second, you held me.

On winter evenings, alone on a deserted terrace somewhere, you and I are enough.

Stone cold sobriety feels like the most intense trip of my life.