Jubilance is victory. Something worth celebrating, or perhaps the celebration itself. Either way, where there’s happiness there’s wine.
And it’s extra special when you try to click a picture of the wine, and it turns out better than you had expected it to.
It’s Friday, and need I a better reason to celebrate?
I met a girl who’d subjected herself to an impressive schedule. A fiction and a non-fiction every week, no matter what.
It seemed a vigorous routine. Like school homework. Do it, finish it, and move on to the next. Reading is learning yes, but to me it seemed like she forced herself to read, read, and read even more.
Which is not a wrong thing. Except it felt so wrong that someone who’d read so much wouldn’t want as much to do with writing. She had an aversion to writing, and I couldn’t understand that.
When I first got bored with my school routine, I took to reading. I wasn’t as aggressive as I’d like to claim, but I read a lot.
And I realised I loved reading. From Enid Blyton, Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, and Sherlock Holmes to Harry Potter, and Narnia, it was a crescendo of curiosity. And I believe that was a good thing.
I used to sit under a not-so-bright lamp, all night, peering at the fine print. It was fascination beyond anything I had felt. I loved the way reading made me feel. I longed for the lure of the sentences, the way a story moved from one word to another, how every letter and every comma only enriched the narrative, and how every single dash or stroke on paper added so much value.
I loved absorbing more than the story — the size of the print, the blackness of it, and the tiny strokes that sharpened every curve. I began to see the beauty in a full stop, the potential in ellipsis, the continuity in a comma, and the definite uncertainty in a question mark.
And that’s when I understood I want to write like that.
I had, for years, admired the way writers played with words, the way Shakespeare shattered grammar rules and yet made it sound so right. And I wanted to do the same, in such a way so as to make another young reader stare swell in love with words — just as I had.
And that’s why I never comprehend when someone says they love reading, but can’t write. What do they see while reading, I wonder?
How can I thank you?
No problem. Like coffee?
I’d love to meet again.
I’d like that too.
When can I call you?
I’m always free, aren’t you?
You like roses?
Who doesn’t?
Some don’t.
Well, I do.
Red or white?
What do you think?
Plain or embossed?
I want a design. You?
Me too. I like this pair.
I like the silver streaks.
Gold rings, silver linings?
Little things matter, right?
Guess, boy or girl?
Boy, I say. You?
Either way, it’s ours.
And we’ll love it.
You know I love you?
Do you have to say?
Recliner or armchair?
Which is more comfortable?
I don’t know, you tell me.
Recliner. Armchair later maybe.
Aren’t you the boss?
Aren’t you the financier?
Help me, which pill?
Why not keep tabs?
Yes, next time. Tell me now.
Here, this now. That one later.
Thanks. Want some tea?
Why the hell not?
He estimated wedding costs.
Marriage? Underestimated.
I’ve heard people talking about being homesick for someplace you’ve never been to. And now I feel it.
After spending as little as five days away from my routine, I now crave more of it. I liked waking up at three am to watch the sunrise through bamboo trees, I enjoyed trekking up a mountain just so we could look down at the plains, I cherish every moment I spend on road shuffling about my seat as we drove through some of the less paved roads.
And then I came back. To waking up early so I could get to the bathroom before my roommates woke up, to trudging along the pavement as cars, lorries, and honking autos rushed past me, and made my hair stand up. I came back to my life in the world of air-conditioned offices, where Ralph Lauren, Louis Vuitton, and Ray-Bans were the casual ensemble. I came back to the world I knew I don’t belong.
As I inhaled the carbon dioxide from the hundreds of vehicles that passed me, it took me back to the day I stood in the middle of a tea estate engulfed in the smell of unpicked tea leaves. I remember the fresh water rivers, so clean and so turquoise. I hadn’t seen (or known of) such pure water before. I was so close to the earth, among flowers that bore the morning dew, amidst frozen lakes, and mountains so rough yet so beautiful.
I long for that.
I’m homesick for that closeness to nature. I crave for the mountain tops, the warm grassy plains, the chilly winter breeze, and the freezing snow peaks. It’s the kind of view a twelve storey corporate building couldn’t offer.
The Chaos Within 