It is pleasant now at 4 P.M.
I usually open half of my extremely large slider windows, but right now, the whole window is open, the gentle breeze that it brings in keeps my dainty curtains dancing along with it. Subtle sunlight, the kind that shines during the evening, is filtering through the curtains, streaking my mosaic floor and my well-made bed. The room smells of my baked pecan scented diffuser, but also faintly of the strawberry linen mist that I’d overenthusiastically spritzed over my sheets and duvet a week ago.
It’s a vividly lazy Saturday, the kind where you just want to be with yourself, nourish your brain and body — read, experiment with perfumes, play with dried flowers between your pages and lie on the floor dreaming.
Here I am, with my velvet-cased pillow down on the floor beside the bed, detached from it dignified position on my bed before the wrought-iron bedrest, with me lying on it, resting on my elbows while reading a completely random book, breaking away from the usual order of the books I was currently reading. I hear the silent but prominent sound of the ceiling fan above me, accompanied by the breeze and chirps of the several pigeons and crows outside. I am munching on the little pellets of salted moong dal, a taste I acquired from a dear friend. I have a few romantic poetry books in my near vicinity; I sometimes grab one, flip to a middle page and read, freezing time, even if just for a moment. From my ancient speaker boxes drifts gently what is supposedly French cafe music — an accordion mostly.
There is something about having some space to yourself. Once you’re here, you have the choice of cutting off from the world, not answerable to anybody. It’s a space of non-judgment and non-accountability. I could stay awake till 3 A.M. and put lipstick. Maybe click some selfies. And I do, why not? I lie on the floor bathed in red string lights reading away on my screen. I sit in front of my table with a flower tiara on my head, watching the most embarrassing of Bollywood flicks. I stand in front of my mirror, obsessing over stretch marks and love handles, and stretching to look slender and satisfy myself for a while. I try clothes after clothes, and earrings after earrings till I’m bored. I brood on my bed lying face down and then grab the book nearby. I stand at my window and look down at the slow life of my housing society in the midst of a very fast city. I watch the sky change colour everytime I rest my eyes from staring at my laptop for too long.
The beautiful thing about these moments is that only I know what they feel like. I could try and describe it, but it would be an exercise in vain because no manner of words could relay to you what I feel right now, the breeze soothing a vaguely sweat sheened back, wisps of hair smelling cocoa.
Or perhaps, I’m not a very good writer after all.