Monday, July 30, 2012

Sunday Inertia, Gluttony, Whodunits and Fernweh


Ma asks what I want for breakfast. ‘Something scrumptious’, flashes in my mind in bold, neon Spongebob yellow Comic Sans font. My 'usual' breakfast (since a month) has been brown bread, a runny herb omelette and frothy coffee. My weird body clock with its slipshod sleep rhythm and food cravings somehow deduces that it is Sunday, and demands some calorie-laden, scrumptious goodness. But I am averse to dishes that required elaborate planning or waiting time enough for my impatient stomach to digest itself. I want something oily, filling, and quick. And soon I sit down to eat pasta with oodles of sauce while watching the early morning joggers stretch their lithe bodies after a fat-burning run. Show-offs. 7am.

Summer. Sunshine. Sundays. Siestas. This quartet holds true for me. I am quick to blame the weather if I’m caught taking a nap. But I've loved these naps even before I first came upon the word ‘siesta’ in Gerald Durrell’s book ‘My Family and Other Animals’; and considering my intense devotion towards this word, I often entertain the thought of being a Corfu inhabitant in a past life. As I sit down to Sunday lunch, I look at the clock and smile contently as in half an hour I will be in bed with a book and try to fight sleep, all the while rooting for the enemy. Rejuvenated after an hour, with replenished vigour, I feel a surging love for everything the world has to offer. But it translates to nothing more than a stretch of my arms and sitting cross-legged on my bed. That burnt some calories, I hope. 2pm.

Monday, July 9, 2012

Whisper of the Heart OR In which I yearn for a home in the hills

"On a perfect day in a perfect world, I would wake up to the sun peeking in to tiger-stripe my nest of white sheets and a pillow as soft and plump as a baby’s cheeks. And I would run up the stairs barefoot, to the terrace and be surrounded by a sea of trees interspersed with pretty houses, a riot of colors blooming on their front porches and an occasional rocking chair.

  

I would sip a steaming cup of coffee with only the birds on a red roof for company. And then be tempted by a long winding road disappearing around the corner in a pink bougainvillea bush.

 

The early hour will contrive to keep the people of the pretty houses under downy quilts in their warm beds while I would tie my shoelaces and quietly slip out of the house. I’ll meet a few children though, with cheeks as red as apples; and going downhill I’ll cross a girl, waiting and drumming impatient fingers on her satchel, and a minute later walk past a boy hurrying uphill, smiling to himself. I’ll run my fingers along ivy-lined stone walls and stand under a tree with the prettiest pink blossoms.