Author: Pooja

Re-re-reading!

Reading a new book is like a roller coaster ride – the swoops and thrills, the fluttering in the stomach, the screaming, the thumping hearts, and the sheer giddiness of it all. Reading a new book is a joy, an exploration, a discovery. You don’t know what’s next, and what it’ll be like, but as long as it’s there, you’re along for the ride, and lovin’ every moment of it.

Re-reading a book, by contrast, might sound utterly boring. Where’s the newness, you’ll ask. Where’s the excitement? You already know what’s going to happen, where’s the suspense?! All I can say is, yes, re-reading is not a roller coaster ride. Re-reading a favorite story is like a walk in your neighbourhood park. You know where exactly the see-saw is, you know the kids who play there every evening, their carefree laughter and games. You know the mothers who bring their adorable babies in prams, the best spot to watch the sun set. Yes, there’s no adrenaline rush here. But you still go to the park once in a while, to relax, to unwind … just because it’s old and familiar.

So while reading something for a very first time is an experience in itself, it’s nice to re-read … and then re-re-read … go back to what is predictable and known, go back to something warm and comfortable. It’s like going back home and being hugged by your mom. Like drinking warm milk on a cold winter night. Like finding an old sweater in the attic, the one which you used to wear all the time a few years ago, and putting it on again, and even though it’s a little too snug now, it feels soft and warm and so comforting.

And therein lies my justification for reading my favorite books over and over again. 🙂

A never-ending train of thoughts

This is something I wrote while on an excruciatingly long train journey. I generally enjoy traveling by trains – there’s something about the rhythmic chug-chug-chug motion that always lulls me into a pleasant contemplative state of dreaminess. It’s always refreshing to catch up on some ‘me’ time … entire chunks of the day where you can just sit and ponder, look at the hills and trees and tunnels swoosh (or crawl, depending upon the speed of the train) past you. Those are the moments when you’re glad to just be by yourself. You can observe your fellow-passengers and get glimpses into a different culture, a different way of living. It can be quite fascinating. You might encounter really cute babies, or a couple of impish kids, who’ll keep you entertained whenever they aren’t napping. Put on your favorite music, settle down comfortably in a window seat and you’re good to go.

Of course, that’s the scenario for a normal train journey … for about 5 to 6 hours. If it’s longer than that, you can always sleep off. Eighteen hours, as this train was, is pushing it slightly. At the end of that you’re quite relieved to reach your destination. But that’s more or less the maximum duration of a journey you can get through contentedly. My train got delayed by an extra fourteen hours. Yup, fourteen. Which makes it a grand total of 32 hours in the same train, the same compartment, the same everything. You’d be bored to tears by the same bunch of random passengers around you talking at the top of their voices in languages you may or may not understand. The kids’ plaintive wails and screams get on your nerves, and it’s all you can do to prevent yourself from wailing alongside. And there’s just so long you can listen to songs. I mean, honestly. There’s just no change, no stimulus, no excitement. You’re in this weird transition zone when you’re not in any one place, you’re all over the place, you feel as if you’ve been uprooted … you’d rather be anywhere but in the train. Forget wanting to reach … you’d start wishing you had never ever left.

Anyway, so this is something I wrote when I was bordering on despair, yet had decided to be a little productive:

Surrender

Moonlight glitters a burnished silver

Capping every rushing wave

As they crash and break upon the shore

The wet sand gleams and sparkles

Outlines a dainty footprint

and then another.

As she patters towards the edge

Holds her breath, tethering on

the brink of the unknown.

A tiny wave approaches

Black and silver softness

engulfs her feet.

She closes her eyes, hesitates

almost a moonlit statue

The perfection beckons her

Comfort zone calls her back

How can she reach out to the horizon

From the safety of the caves?

For a long moment, it’s terror

Repercussions and fear

Better safe than sorry.

But all of a sudden, the scales tip over

Excitement, the newness wins

She takes one definite step, and moves

Forward.

The water pools around her

and embraces

her graceful surrender.

Cooking Lows and Baking Highs

Oh, the joy of baking cakes!

It’s rather a big deal, hearing this from a girl who freaks out at the very idea of cooking. I’m a person with a miniscule appetite; I eat to live as compared to some of my friends who live to eat. I’d happily go without meals if I had the option. It’s not like I’m totally uninterested in food … it’s more like I don’t see the point of investing so much time, thought and energy (yes, I firmly believe I lose more energy than I gain each time) in eating three square meals a day. Cooking three square meals a day and then eating them sounds infinitely worse. What will I do when I’m living on my own, you ask? I’ll hire a cook, or eat out every single day. Or make plain dal and rice every evening (yes, that is something which I simply pine for when I stay in my hostel).

However. Have I told you my mother makes the most amazing cakes ever? Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, banana … you name it. All in shapes of butterflies and hearts and squares (now that’s what I call a square meal!) and oh, so divine! I assist her sometimes. Milk and flour, butter and sugar, add a couple of eggs, pop it in the oven – and voila! Who could imagine something so incredibly tasty coming out? It’s almost miraculous … watching the batter in the oven swell up so beautifully, and the aroma … ah! Vanilla essence is knee-weakeningly enticing.

When your cake is ready, all soft and warm from the oven … and you take it out … there’s this indescribable soaring joy – yes, I did this. I created this! And then you take your first bite, sinking your teeth in … a slice of heaven, if you will. You close your eyes and let all your senses focus on the delicious taste. No sight, no sound … just the ‘ummm-yummy!’ taste and the lingering scent. After you’ve had a piece … and a couple more, for good measure … you offer a bit to someone else. And watch the pure unadulterated happiness on their face. As they eat, and smack their lips and go, can I have some more? And you feel a gratifying sense of achievement – wow, I did that. I put that smile on their face. I made someone’s day!

And that’s what’s making me re-think my stance. Maybe I’ll enjoy cooking as well some day? Maybe my baking high can extend to a more-encompassing cooking high? Not thrice a day, that would be too monotonous. But once in a while? Maybe my hired cook can get a day off every week. Hmmm …too ambitious. Make that once a fortnight.

So I’m probably not raring to be a homemaker. But at least there’s a non-zero probability now. 🙂