Snoozing the alarm at least five times before actually waking up. Beginning the day with a tall mug of chai. Slow cooking my oats, adding one spice in at a time, in no particular order. Absentmindedly adding in chopped fruit, and realising it actually worked out quite well. Spending mornings stretched out in bed, book in hand, day after day after day after…
Losing track of time, taptapping away at the computer, looking up to realise three hours have passed by. Happily. Making lists of non-work work, and taking it just as seriously. Feeling just as satisfied when it is actually accomplished.
Taking apart every cupboard, one shelf at a time. Sorting, discarding, rearranging, replacing. Spending entire mornings setting things back in order.
Having time behave, just the way it should.
Driving out to catch a meal some place special, even as the sun is beating down. Sitting in the shade of a lime green umbrella, sipping a lemon-mint soda. Feeling just so happy with the way things work out.
Eating till bellies burst, relenting only when the signs of a siesta become difficult to fight.
Soaking in the summer afternoon heat, loving it as much as hating it all at once. Beads of sweat dotting upper lips, underarms soaked through, there is relief only when those clothes are ripped off and replaced by little itty-bitties.
Dreaming of meals that end with a big bowl of curd. Sometimes whipped with just a dash of jaggery. Licking every last bit of it. Making dessert of loose-skinned, baby oranges. Peeling them, fingers sticky, in the balmy afternoon light. Drawing the curtains closed tight, for that afternoon siesta.Watching the fan whirr slowly, and feeling irritable that its not quite enough.
Eyes heavy, they shut unexpectedly, the book in hand lightly tipping gently off balance. The page is lost as sleep finds its way home.
Growing annoyed when the newly summer-vacationed kids come out to play at 4 pm. Having that evening cup of chai, set to the backdrop of their incessant chatter in the distance.
Spending late evenings in the balcony, endlessly talking away, as the glass in hand quickly turns wet with condensation. Swatting mosquitoes and watching the prayer flags flutter in the wind, thick with humidity.
Feeling glad that for every summer day, there is a summer night.
There was a time not so long ago when I’d slot so many of these things those rare indulgences. Saved for those special days when I’d take trouble to put life on hold and choose to own my time just for a bit, to do what I pleased with it. When I’d indulge in the odd guilty pleasure, like that random siesta, extra dessert, laboring over a whole meal, cooking it from scratch, spending a whole day with a book, going out to a lavish brunch. Days spent just the way I pleased, thanks to a momentary lapse in routine often gave me that burst of energy, the breath of fresh air. Little things that gave immense joy. On Sunday, as we gobbled our brunch, which we actually ended up having at lunch-time, I realised that what I called rare indulgences at one time, have somehow become life today.