I'm writing this from Coimbatore. I'm here for the best of all reasons. A wedding. This time it was my cousin, J. I've been here four days now, dressed in sarees and high heels, with jasmine buds in my hair. I met relatives I never knew I had, some who I vaguely remember, and an increasing number of familiar faces.

On the evening of the reception, when I sat down for a little while to give my sadly abused toes some rest, a little girl sat opposite me. She picked the petals off a daisy and blew them in my face.

I've gossiped with my grandmother and aunt, acted as wingman for J till his best friend showed up, sung till my throat turned hoarse. I've smiled at people whose names I no longer remember and promised to visit them, someday. Promises we both know I won't keep. I've soothed hurt feelings, cleaned and packed, carried messages and baggage, talked and listened. Listened more than talked. I've also not slept very much.

The wedding vows they took were basically a dignified pinky-swearing, to be best friends for the rest of their lives. I liked that. I stood and watched J get married in a shower of rice grains and rose petals. The music got very loud for a second, everyone was standing in a tremendous crush, and then it was over.

I'm alone now for a little while, after being surrounded by people for three days. I'm not smiling because it hurts my face. People keep coming in every once in awhile to talk. We've formed tenuous bonds, working together for a common cause. I've done this before, more times than I can count. Each time, a few more bonds last. Here, after all, we are already bound by blood. I feel very rich to have so many people who care about me.

I leave here tomorrow, back to my old life, but slightly changed. Change is good. It is sameness that is frightening. I think we need occasions like these, so we give pause and reconsider our own lives, but also so we realise it isn't always about us. For a little while, we celebrate the lives of the people we care about.

I stop typing every once in awhile to look at my henna-stained fingers. I'm very tired, but I think, at peace. Tomorrow is another day.

I'm not doing so good, Reader. I'm afraid, and I'm not quite sure of what. I've done this before. Sat around and waited to be rescued. No one ever comes. There's a reason why we write white knights into stories. They're mythical creatures. The mistake we make is believing that they can be real.
It's hard to realise that you are your own white knight. Rescuing is a tough business. It's never as simple as jumping up on a horse and galloping away. No. There are dragons to slay first. And not fire-breathing, scaly ones, but long, tedious ones, the sort that you can't fight with logic or fire. They don't make for very good stories. And they're all inside me.
No one is coming. 

It's raining in Delhi today. I'm lying very still in my bed. I've sprained my neck, the result of a fall a couple of days ago, and any movement is painful. Panda is keeping me company. He nibbled on my sleeve for a while, but now he's curled up under the bed. I reach down to pat him every time the thunder gets particularly loud. 
I can hear the rain and smell it. The lightning flashes illuminate my room, eerily. Otherwise, it is as dark as night. I tried turning on the light earlier, but turned it off quickly. It felt harsh and blue and intrusive. This darkness is better, if a little frightening. How quickly the clouds change day to night. 

I tried listening to music, but even Zila Khan sounded strained, singing as she did, over the rain. I didn't bother queuing up another song after she lapsed into silence.

I made a sandwich for us earlier. Honey and cheese, toasted and melty. I cut it in squares, and we ate it piece by piece. Afterward, we had coffee, strong and black. I drank that all by myself, because Panda didn't seem to appreciate it. 

It's nice, staying at home on a rainy day, even if it hurts to nod. 

Images

I’m confused, reader. I feel a little like a hamster running on a wheel, just because it’s there. There are so many things I wish I could do, so many things I want to do… Picking one and sticking with it seems so scary. I settle for creative inertia instead, but now even that is grating on my nerves.

I took a long walk with Panda on Sunday morning, and tried to think. It didn’t help that Panda kept enacting different versions of this scenario.

(I'll credit this as soon as Ken tells me where he got it from. It was too good not to share.)

It had rained the previous night, and I was constantly distracted by scenes such as this.

Panda ran in mad circles about the lawn while I photographed mushrooms.

And I went back inside after my walk, as confused as I’d been before, but curiously comforted. 

I've come here with no plan of what to say, just that I need to talk. The past couple of weeks have been... intense. I've been working unusually hard, sleeping less, thinking rather more than is my wont, and the strain is telling. I don't want a break, no. I'm enjoying what I'm doing and really, just want more of the same. I'm young and energetic and am finally, somewhat, coming in to my own. As I discussed with R, (who I've shamefully neglected for so long, I doubt I can even ask for forgiveness any more) I have a list of things I've always dreamt of doing. Now, I finally have the chance to pick up that list, dust off the cobwebs that've collected on its surface, and begin ticking things off.
I've begun the process, Reader, and it is both scary and exhilarating. But, as I'm also slowly discovering, I really can do all the things on that list. I need to break them down into component steps and evolve a plan of action, but really, five years of solving numericals make that part a piece of cake. As for the rest, I've taken a deep breath and plunged in. This is just me surfacing for air.

Fairy dust

Life is very interesting, isn't it, Reader? There's so much to see and do, that some days, sleep seems like a waste of time. I've done only the most mundane of things today. Walked the dog, gone to work, laughed with friends, read, cooked... But somehow, of late, it's like a handful of pixie dust has been flung into the mix, giving each activity a particular charm.

Foolish me. I didn't believe in fairies. 

It doesn't take much

Ah Reader, it's June and it is summer. The Amalta tree in our garden is blooming in an explosion of colour. Each day, the tree sheds a blanket of yellow flowers on the grass below, as if it knows that the green of the lawn sets off the flowers to perfection.

This morning, the wind lifted the flowers in the air and churned them in a mad dance, while one excited little dog chased after them. I watched and laughed till my sides ached. Each morning, after our walk, Panda and I play a game of catch in the lawn. I toss his yellow ring for him (A super-thoughtful present from G. It's still going strong now, months later) and he chases after it. Then, once he has it in his possession, he dodges nimbly around me, while I lunge and pant, trying to catch him. When I finally do, I retrieve the ring and throw it again.

At one point, he tires of it and collapses on the lawn, panting.

Today, I sat down next to him and watched the wind dance flowers across the lawn.