12 Apr 2016


I set down the mug of tea by the window sill and go hunting for my favorite cushion. Then I prop it up in the corner and figure out a good sitting position. Sitting cross-legged is out of question – since the putting on of weight, every time I sit cross-legged for more than 30 minutes, my legs start getting pins-and-needly – I don’t like taking breaks to walk around, finding a bookmark for my pages is a challenge. 

So I curl up against the couch’s arm, pull back the powder blue curtains just a bit, reach out for my mug and settle in. What should I read now… Hmm… I tap a few buttons and all four of my TBR books show up on the Kindle. I want something light but not YA, no, not that light. How about some mystery, I decided on the Ice Twins and bring it up on the screen. "Our chairs are placed precisely two yards apart. And they are both facing the big desk, as if we are a couple having marital therapy; a feeling......" 
Sigh. This is not working. 

I go back and bring up Suicide Notes From Beautiful Girls on the screen, read a couple of lines, sip on my tea, but I find my mind wandering again. Moos of that cow down the street, the golgappewala’s sales pitch, and my neighbor's rendition of the latest Tamil hits take precedence in my focus, while the words start line dancing in my vision.  

I shake my head and let my eyes wander. My gaze falls upon my bookshelf and notice that it is collecting dust. A frown forms on my face as I reach over and wipe off the grime with my sleeve. I run my fingers up the spine of Jane Eyre and down the spine of The Palace of Illusions. I run my palm across the hard cover of The Family Life and then riffle through the pages of The Golden Son. 

I open it up right at the middle, bring my nose close to the pages, and inhale. 
I go back to page one and start reading. 

And then I be dead to the world until I get to the last word in the last sentence in the last page, 
five hours later.