Firefly out of the Jar

After finishing a very satisfying supper of homemade bread and mushroom sauteed in a thick tomato-onion gravy last night, which surprisingly came out good despite my making, I and my husband stood over the kitchen sink talking (we don't talk, we banter it's mostly inane things around who's nicer or cuter between us). The plants were right there and I remarked on how beautiful this space is, overlooking the succulents, a small bonsai with large leaves and a curry leaf plant which we brought just a couple of weeks earlier.  To all these, a new addition is an egg-less paper carton that I potted some cherry tomatoes seeds in just a week before. I am diligently soaking the soil wet every morning and hoping eagerly for a miracle but am not too optimistic with this at all.  So there is absolutely zero inquisitiveness from the husband side and to be honest, inherently from mine too.   And today morning I sleepily took my feet into the kitchen for my morning ritual of cooking...

It’s been a while since am here typing away my thoughts as they arise. Another year zaps away like the scarf that broke free despite the clothespin she was fixed with,  after a fierce battle with the December winds. I often find myself brooding over on things that I never have the courage to undertake, like what if I went in search in the direction she left me.  If nothing I could have found her, soiled and scared, even wet but nonetheless still accounted for. In the dim lights of my living room, resting on the couch and watching an orchestrated sequence of predictable situations on TV with my husband, I go back to the day I gave up on my shawl. Would I have brought her back, in case I found her. Would my feet be snugly covered under the warm comforts of my scarf instead of under my husband’s lap, which seems to do the job just?   And what do I do with the year that escaped me?  Will I ever find it again, can those times return to me at least in my lucid dr...

Imagine you are on a speed boat headed nowhere in the thick blanket of night.  The wind is hoarse, fencing wildly with your hair and despite the rush forward, there is a quiet spread all around you. After what seemed like thirty minutes into this ride, the boat comes to a halt and the driver rings a hushed bell to wake you up in case your senses have given into the dull roar. You wake up adjusting your eyes to see something other than nothingness. And suddenly, you see a quick flick of light and it’s gone in the next pulse. Then again. And as you slowly become part of this moment, starting with fewer, thousands of fireflies flicker on and off before your widened eyes. With all my luck and nagging to make it happen, I experienced this magical night in Kuala Selangor a few weeks ago on a road trip with friends. We took a bus on Saturday morning from Singapore to Johor, a border city in Malaysia and rented a car. The trip was a ride rolled with laughter, snacks and flowi...

Over 6 months ago, on a calm evening of my solace, I switched on a show on NetFlix called Lemony Snicket's A series of Unfortunate events.    It was everything one could get hooked to. An infamous criminal played by Neil Patrick Harris as Count Olaf, a mystery with dark secrets and anagrams, a series of unfortunate events revolving around three lucky kids for whom you'd expect better things, but most of all, the incredulous wordplay by the narrator Lemony Snicket.    The first chapter is titled 'A bad beginning'. The advisory recommends to stop watching as there is nothing hopeful about the story, and all you want to do is defy it, and see for yourself that there is, after all, a different outcome. Because life, as we have learned, is an oxymoron to itself.       I binged on a few episodes and noticed that every episode ended with a quote against a black screen. The sound of a typewriter puffing out letters overpowered me, and swaye...