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Thursday, October 30, 2014

I'm not even a morning person

My favourite part of the day is actually just 15 minutes in the morning. That brief shining window of time before I *have* to get up and go about my day. Before making breakfast, feeding cats, running off to work, for those few minutes I can lie in bed with my eyes closed, listening to what's happening around me.

The cats are fighting under the bed. A train toots in the distance. Cars horns have started honking. The fan is too fast, I'm cold. I feel around for a blanket and wrap it tighter around me. I realise I have a much better alternative, shrug off the sheets and wrap myself around the gently snoring bear of a man next to me. He grumbles and settles into a new comfortable position. A cat wanders by and curls up in the warm space between us, purring loudly, sending happy happy vibrations through us both, arching his neck for a head-rub. I've never seen as much bliss at a simple touch of the hand as this cat gets out of constant soft head-rubs. 

All this only lasts for a few minutes, seconds even... The other cat shows up and starts demanding food, phones start beeping, trains need to be caught, milk needs to be boiled and the day starts to buzz, and I hope it continues in the same pleasant, happy vein it began.

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Shot Story #1

My very first Shot Story


Bhola returned to his spot on the sidewalk on Friday morning, utterly exhausted and covered in pink paint. His beatific smile couldn’t have betrayed the fact that he had just spent several excruciating hours daubing every single leaf on a long row of bushes with paint that he had silently pilfered, all while steering clear of cops or any unwanted attention.

He collapsed and slept, dreaming of the honours that would soon be bestowed upon him.

He awoke that evening, spruced himself up and waited eagerly for his next task. The voices told him that this fine evening, he was to steal as many guavas as he could from the neighbourhood market and throw them into open house windows till the sun came up.

With the faint stirrings of dawn and after a close brush with an irritated Pomeranian, Bhola called it a night, ate his sole remaining guava and returned to the pavement to sleep.

Now they decide upon his next task, so they can continue to have their spot of fun.

“It’s my turn today.”

“Shut it, you got to choose just 2 days ago!”

“Quit squabbling. Let her have her turn.”

In a manner most unbecoming of deities, they bicker in their portraits above the sleeping figure of Bhola, deciding on that night’s mischief.