I feel an unexplainable pain every time I think about how little I think or reflect these days, ie, write. That’s what my time with Fuchsia used to be about. I feel this pain every time I read something that has emotion. I no longer know what it takes to write a complete story – even if it is a rant about the most inconsequential, inane matter. I have lost count of the number of ‘posts’ that I have started with good intent and steam but never finished. I have constantly held various things responsible for it (in my head) – a consuming day job, a mix of desired and unwanted social action, the luring (to the feeling of writing) idea of being on a plane for extended periods of time but feeling so awfully tired when actually mid-air that I’d not even have the energy to type, attempts at saving truly free time for C, Skype calls with family and friends in other time zones, cooking because I have time, watching TV because I’ve earned a lazy couch hour (or two), and the list goes on.
That alphabet blogging challenge, which was a great thought-starter, also failed. Gah.
Coming to the latest – the festive season and my *feelings*. Starting with Karva Chauth, which I have observed for two years now. It is probably one of the biggest ironic paradox in my life but I do indulge in it. And it goes alright until I observe or get into a debate with someone from back home. There is so much vitriolic point-proving that it is almost hard to bear. I won’t go into the details here again but suffices to say that it kills the spirit that makes me participate in the process. It’s obviously not about C’s long life.
And then there is Diwali. Five days to go. Delhi must be going mad. It is my first Diwali away. I always made it a point to be back for it but didn’t even make an attempt this year. Last year, the first one away from my parents’ home was a different, complex and unusual experience. It wasn’t what I grew up with. This year will obviously be different as well. In an empty house. I’ll come to the details of that later. There will be no rangoli. Possibly no kaju barfi or gulab jamuns either – not because we can’t find them in London but simply because it’s not practical and we don’t need to consciously add sugar to our dessert-heavy days. When did I ever become so awfully practical!
I told someone yesterday that I have been in denial that Diwali is around the corner because it’s not with family.
Time and life are getting spent and I am not documenting any of it. Most of the undocumented times have been good and I wish I was better at doing something about it. But I guess that’s what such times bring with them – that feeling of being free and happy; without a care in the world, including the painstaking documentation.
More later, hopefully.
