Homecoming
Familiarity doesn’t always breed contempt
A lot has changed since the last post here — the most liked picture on Instagram, the world’s number one tennis player, Hardik Pandya’s girlfriend (of course), the year and, well, my marital status.
Yes. I entered the portals of blissful wedlock.
Thank you very much.
I will reserve the wedding related banter for later posts. For now, it will suffice to say that as I write this post, the missus is sat next to me patiently reading a book. So all seems well and breezy with the world.
What wasn’t as smooth was returning to life-as-usual after a 3-week break.
So much so that when I walked into my office and fired my laptop, I had a gut-twisting feeling that I had forgotten my login password. Undeterred, I wiped off a solitary bead of sweat from my forehead and put my fingers to the keyboard. And there it was — the miracle of muscle memory.
A similar sentiment had rushed through my being when I returned home from our honeymoon in Maldives. Even though our days there were filled with remarkably beautiful beaches, some glorious sun, lip-smacking buffets and plush villas, it was when I reclined on my bed that a thousand limbs in my body let out a collective “Aah!”.
My body knew this bed’s curvature and it knew mine.
It is no surprise that the foetal position is the world’s favorite sleeping form. We spend three-fourths of a year snug in that position. That can be hard to get over.
As far and wide we may venture, one always feels the tug of an unseen umbilical cord pulling our being back to what it calls home. A tug that has delightfully brought me be back to this writing home of mine — Dilettante’s Den.
To a year full of words.
