It is a vacation morning and the sun is out bright on my face. I just didn’t want to wake up. But I did and here I am. It’s a nice ochre day. Like in ochre yellow, prussian blue and burnt sienna. Definitely not perfect, but we’ll get there.
The words are not there. They are staying still in suppressed movement and the lid is stuck.
And I truly want my vacations back. Among the trees and the forests and the monkeys and the sun. In the sweat and heat of Madras and the deer crossing the streets at IIT. Movies at OAT and walks at Marina. The salt on my tongue off raw mangoes. Aunts and uncles and the smells of the kitchen. The voices and the books and the corners and stone floors. People I love and people I don’t know. Of Brahmanism and God and endless debates on the fiscal policy.
I miss family, however archaic the term in my lexicon. I miss the ability to disregard myself.