There’s a silly-looking alarm clock on the little table next to my bed. it is green with an orange button on top that serves two purposes, or at least used to serve two purposes.
The first one was the more fascinating of the two, as when pressed while lying awake sleepless at night, it would project the time as a digital light onto the ceiling.
It also serves to turn the alarm on or off.
Huz picked up this cute little clock from the Dubai duty-free for Amu on his way back from somewhere several years ago and over time, and by the endlessly pokey/proddy fascination of visiting children, it has now turned into a mere shadow of its former self. I don’t know why kids find this clock so fascinating, but out of everything lying around in my house, this particular object strikes them as particularly juicy. After examining all the knobs and pressing all the cute little buttons, they pick it up in a perplexed way and shake it vigorously next to their little ears, perhaps in an effort to trry and make it ‘tick’, like a normal self-respecting alarm clock should do.
As a result, the time projection function has ceased to function, as it were, and the alarm is a series of muffled squeals. Some things inside it have come unhinged, so it makes weird clunky noises from deep inside when we pick it up to relocate it. Nevertheless, it continues to show us the time, and in its own suppressed way DOES manage to get me awake when need be.
Today, however, I did NOT need to be woken at 6:20, it being a Sunday. I suppose Huz must have pressed the orange button by mistake at night.
I was roused from deep slumber, the events of a very strange dream (that involved my best friend from school) came to some sort of conclusion (or not) as my mind clambered onto the plane of consciousness enough to poke Huz and inform him very politely that the alarm was ringing and could he please turn it off?
He obliged without any ado, and I must not have been too resentful or I wouldn’t have wrapped my blankie snugly around myself, found that sweet spot on my pillow, and gone back to sleep, waking again after another couple of hours (this time resentfully) only because I had to visit the…ahem…ladies room.
I was dissatisfied with the number of hours my sleep clocked in on a Sunday morning and though I got up and started moving around doing stuff, I wasn’t operating at peak energy levels. In fact, I remember telling Huz as I plonked myself on a chair in front of my laptop that I should still be sleeping.
Nevertheless, there were things on my to do list that needed crossing off, and I had given myself some stern ultimatums as I jotted down chores and aspirations.
I short-listed a couple of things as being of utmost and grave importance: 1) Go to Sunday bazaar. 2) Visit parents.
Lesser things included a bit of gardening, watering and pruning, stitching another nice kameez for myself (yes, I stitched me one a couple of days ago and it looked and felt so good when I wore it on Amu’s Sports day at school, that it is motivating me to stitch another one asap)
Sunday means no Zahooran, so there is always some clearing and washing up to do, and I allowed myself to carry on with the lesser tasks until it was time to do the more important things. Therefore, I ventured into the balcony to assess the state of neglect my plants were in.
The problem with my balcony is, it is a very narrow space that widens into a slightly larger space, and that is where my plants are. Sometimes I forget they are even there. When I remember their existence, I dutifully empty the water collected from the airconditioning pipes into the pots, thereby doing my bit for the environment. But I blame the builder for making such a stupid balcony for my reluctance to go there. It doesn’t help that he put in a very stupid rickety aluminium sliding door that always derails when I try to slide it open. Very annoying, therefore I try and limit my excursions into the balcony.
But it is a tribute to the hardy spirit of the Ficus and the thorny plant with pink flowers that they survive out there. Too bad about the bougainvillea and the betel leaf plant, though I do feel that the bougainvillea isn’t beyond repair. In fact, I can see tiny new leaves emerging from the seemingly lifeless branches just a day after I watered it…..
Karma got me in the end though. As I surveyed the sad-looking cane palm and stripped it of dead leaves and twigs, one sneaky dried leaf poked me in the eye, and as I flinched, the poke turned into a rather vicious scratch.
As my hand flew up in alarm, my eyes welled up with tears and i looked at the twig that hurt me with some bitterness, tinged with guilt. It was after all entirely my fault that the leaves dried up anyway. Serve me right for getting poked in the eye!
I shuffled back into the house feeling remorseful and sorry for myself and made my way over to a mirror to assess the damage. No blood = good sign.
I accepted my defeat.
Then I drew the blinds and curtains, curled up in bed, pulled my blankie up to my chin and found a sweet spot on my pillow. My eye needed to recover after all.
Sunday bazaar could wait till next Sunday, and my poor dear parents will just have to wait till tomorrow. Which is, of course, another day.
p.s I slept the whole afternoon and woke up again at 5. Best thing I did all day.