halfacupoftea

freedom is the freedom to choose whose slave you want to be.

Friday, December 15, 2006

the one in which she was happy

This has to be the most beautiful winter ever.

Morning after morning of sun that I swim in, in tea that almost scalds, slides smooth along my insides like John Legend drenches my eardrums, my senses, slowly, I slide into the plastic lawn chair, cold, ticklish grass underfoot and this could be the new definition of bliss in my book.

And this is just the perfect mix: of hope, a sense of achievement, a little disappointment, a few reality checks, just the right amount of heartache and tears, the balance of uncertainty and faith, the best friends, the right attitude, confidence with a dash of self-doubt, of memorable afternoon drives, and aloneness-in-crowds, of long, cold yet warming bathroom-floor conversations, of goodbyes, and realisations, and lessons.

I stand on the edge of the Margalla road, emerging from a strangely liberating three hour meeting, in the three o' clock sun, as cars whizz by me and I am aware I never learnt how to cross roads, and I am small again as the road stretches out ahead of me, and my bright red dupatta dances in front of my face but there's a taste of green tea and success in my mouth and as I walk along the road at the foot of tall, swaying trees, me - tiny and insignificant, I still feel invincible.

Saturday, December 09, 2006

The city of intertwined fates

In the residue of last week's concert - in alienation brought on by alcohol, by better-halves of bestfriends, while looking at the hunched shoulders of the drummer from backstage, mesmerised, I do. In loud music at Ashi's dholkis, in 9 a.m phone calls that wake me up, in the quiet, in the quiet, in distracting new music that sounds like the old, while getting dressed, talking by proxy, wondering, in long-forgotten passwords, in a pointless argument just the night before that strangely brings on tears, in frustration when there is not one place where I can hide where I will not find criticism, I do. In old clothes, at Ashi's mehndi, in conversations full of laughter, in the halos around the lights, in the spectacular, too-close car crash that I see in slow motion at the very very end of the day, from lightyears ahead and beyond, I do.

And I am afraid to say this out loud, but in my own way I do mark the days.