thoughful moments

Here I sit, luxuriating in the sunshine, reading a book that put me in a thoughtfl mood, lulled by the silent house that sometimes seems alive with its raspy heater. I decided to write because it has been a while and because there were things  I wanted to say. First I wrote a letter, a letter to a friend long gone. As I wrote it I thought to myself, who writes letters these days, not even sentimental me. Letters to keep and cherish, letters to tear in anger, letters to burn with desperation. Eh, true, you can delete an email, you can reread it a million times, but clicking delete does not have the same effect.  So I wrote a letter, a letter full of news abot what is happening in life, what isnt etc, yo know the usual. Then I ended it nostagically. PS: Do you remember the checked levi’s shirt you had? I brought it all the way with me to US, when another newer, prettier shirt could have taken its place. Why did I do that, because that was all I had, that was all I remembered of the good times we had shared, the rest was too painful, too raw then. Now What do I remember, I poke at it with idle curosity, amazed at the lack of feeling. Surprise, surpise, time does heal. Now I only miss you when I wear that shirt, or when I wear the trinkets you brought me, or when I look at all the old pictures of us laughing and happy together. It was so long ago wasnt it? Its funny isnt it, how people think such passion should be reserved for lovers. I reserve it for everyone I call a friend. Luckily there are but a few who fall into that category.

Letter finished, sealed and unaddressed, put away, nowhere to send it, no mail goes that far. I then turned to cooking a meal, not just any meal, but something big, something rich, the scents of which would fill the house and some of my time. What use has an old lady of such rich cloying food, you shake your head. Only the old have need for sch food, for the time when such food was their daily nourshment. For the sake of using up those 24 hours that once they thought would never be enough. The need to fill the house and your belly with something of themselves, it feels otherwise like bones striped off flesh and feelings.

So, cook I did, dicing slowly carefully, peeling vegetables tenderly, as if it would hurt them. Paid attention to the sounds of oil sizzling, the vegetables in their mad uproar as they hit the pan, the smell, the glorious smell of food filling the house, forgetting for a moment, there was just me to feed, as there always had been, just me. Restless, waiting for dinner to finish cooking, I go over to the desk again, look through the letters, open a couple and find only advertisements for 0 APR. Not something I need at this point of my life. Forgetting dinner, having the smell of good food turn to burnt food.

And then sudden anger, the sunshine becomes overbright, the letters, a testament to sentimental twaddle and I tear them into two, dropping the pieces over the remains of what was to be dinner, relishing now the frozen meal in the freezer and the delete button, it hides so well, the inadequacy in todays woman.

..i know..change of pace for me, just something I wrote just now out of the blue, ofcouse no editing involved. DO comment if you hated/loved/thought it was pretentious crap



  1. beautifully written

  2. blue checkered levi’s shirts….
    ink pens…
    borrowed strappy black sandals…
    still listen to tujhse naraaz nahi zindaagi..?

  3. @ chandni: thanku ji (blushes)
    @ bosom friend: you bet 😀 ink pens gave over a while back though

  4. 😀
    beautiful post ..keep writing…love reading it..

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