Today the bubble seems more fragile than ever. I didn’t feel like smiling when I woke up.
Wedgies during the night can do that to you.
Why did I ever think having a landline on my bedside table was a good idea? The only people who still call me on that number are mood-dampeners, invariably while I’m still asleep.
I scribbled myself a to-do list with a board marker on a white board I dragged out of Amu’s room. Something about erasing chores as I accomplish them is thrilling.
Amu hijacked the board. She suddenly realized she really needed it to write a schedule for herself to follow for test week.
I told her she could take the board if she could transfer my chores on paper. She did so.
But I lost my enthusiasm. It just didn’t feel the same to scratch out my chores on paper.
Bored two evenings ago, I wandered around the house looking for inspiration, stopping at the bookshelf.
Skimming halfheartedly, my fingers reached for a book of verses by an Urdu poet. Something told me it was time to read it.
Reading wilfully at first, my interest deepened as I came across lines that resonated. I lugged the fat and heavy Urdu dictionary off the shelf, turned on a bright lamp, donned my reading glasses, armed myself with a pencil, and proceeded to look up meanings of obscure words and phrases. Soon, the pages were peppered with little notes, as nerve centres in my brain sparked.
I found myself smiling, even laughing out loud at times, sheer delight at understanding, recognizing…
I should have recognized this enjoyment as something sacred. I should not have shared. I should not have read aloud and expected my voice to be clear, ringing.
‘You’re embarrassing yourself,’ she said.
‘This is crappy. How can you have the patience for it?’ said she.
It takes so little to be derailed. Such few words to throw you into uncertainty.
I had thought I would spend a few days doing just this. But I have not picked up that book since.