I desperately want to slip back to normalcy. I really do. Which is to say I want to unpack my bags with alacrity, set the house back to lived-in order, throw away the wilted dead flowers, replace them with new ones, buy a big fresh batch of veggies, do all the laundry, bake a loaf of bread and settle down with a glass of wine. Not necessarily in that order, but definitely not excluding one or the other of those tasks. All very critical to getting back to normalcy.
Instead I am stuck in the twilight zone between feeling so incredibly glad to be back home and feeling that undeniable twinge of missing the holiday a teeny bit. I am sad it is over. Almost as much as I am glad to be back to regular life.
February was an insanely busy month. And that is 98.56% of the reason why the month felt like it zipped right by while I was sleeping or something. Because although so much happened, much of it is a blur and here we are well into the first week of March. The remainder 1.44% is purely because I am so busy chilling with no real life-changing agenda haranguing me into action that its easy to watch the days slip by, without a pinch.
I had my fair hare of busy time with the sister visiting, the in laws scooting over for a few days, the wedding madness, all the while juggling home and work and ending the month with the trip to Delhi. It feels like I barely got back from one trip and had just about put my suitcase away into the loft, when two days later I was packing it again to go Bombay-wards. Through it all the husband has had his parallel share of busy times: working weekends, racking his brain overtime, really stretching himself physically and mentally and travelling on an average once a week. I honestly can’t remember the last time the two of us sat down and talked face to face, leisurely, without dashing off to catch a flight or tend to some pending task.
Between the two of us we have taken nine flights and two train rides in just the last two weeks. And I have finished two and a half books, packed and unpacked twice over and taken myself and my strolley suitcase from wintry Delhi to hot-as-fuck Goa and then hotter-that-hell Bombay. So its no wonder that my body has officially given up and succumbed to the weather change and given me the cold and sore throat from hell. Quite the crash back to sobering reality. After the heady high of jet-setting all over the place without a care in the world.
So yeah, painlessly slipping back to normalcy would really hit the spot right now. But here I am feeling like a bottomless vat of mucus, marvelling at the wondrous human body and its ability to churn out such vast quantities of sputum overnight, while also thinking of devious ways to plug my nasal orifices to keep them from overflowing when I least expect.
The husband is at work. My suitcase lies half-unpacked. My body is burning up even though it is upwards of 36 degrees around me. My throat feels constantly parched and for the first time ever I wished for some kitchen help so there would be some home cooked food put in the table without me having to lift a finger. But that will have to wait.
For now I will tuck into dal chawal that I just ordered in, pop my favourite pills, make myself some haldi wala doodh, kick back with a book and think of all that I did the last few days: chilling at home, jigging at the Norah Jones gig, stuffing face on home food, afternoons spent playing with my brat cousins, antique trawling at Chor Bazaar, meeting The Queen at a wine bar, catching up with Anand over a wonderful meal at a plush new bistro, tucking into some awesome berry pulao and lagan nu custard at Britannia and of course spending a bonus few days with ze zister.
There’s nothing a dose of anti histamines can’t fix. So regular programming should hopefully commence tomorrow. See you on the other side.