Last night was peaceful. You’d get my meaning if you knew my neighbours. They fight. They fight often. It’s loud. It’s ugly. It keeps everyone up.
Last night we all took the night off. I was happy to hear my own heartbeat again. I drew the blinds. I dimmed the lights. I got my bowl of popcorn. I burrowed into the couch and started the film.
And then I heard that eerie sound again: the kitchen door opening, distinct footsteps slowly coming my way. I froze. My pounding heart rose to my throat. How I wished the neighbours would fight.
“A woman’s handbag is a mysterious dungeon. It’s the key to her real self; the prosaic answer to many poetic conceptions. A magician does not want to explain his tricks. There is an aura of taboo about a closed handbag. Every woman has an uneasy look if somebody glances into its sacred privacy,” reads a passage in an article titled ‘The Inside Story of a Handbag’ by Anita Daniel in The New York Times of January 21, 1945.
There was once a time, even in this country, long before terrorists roamed the earth, when a woman’s handbag was cloaked in mystery. Those days are long gone, and baring all to strangers during security checks has become the norm. Continue reading
Today, I had a strange experience. I was in a roomful of sweetpotato scientists, including three of the winners of the 2016 World Food Prize (surprised that I know some very important people? Don’t be).
So, the strange experience: Someone said something about the media, and the first image that came to my mind was a tissue culture lab, shelves lined with rows of transparent test tubes. Inside them, tiny, green plantlets sitting delicately inside the nutrient media. Turns out the speaker was talking about photos and video repositories. I had to reboot.
“What am I turning in to?” I wondered.
There’s this person who comes up with the weirdest thoughts, which he feels compelled to share on Facebook. His name is Tigana.
I was trying not to succumb to the afternoon heat. I was losing. Three cups of water, two cups of hot over-sweetened black tea, two chapatis, a handful of groundnuts… nothing was working. It wasn’t Monday blues either (whatever that means). Continue reading
Everybody likes the rain. Well, not me. As soon as the water hits the ground, I’m racked by uncontrollable coughing fits. I don’t know why people say the smell of wet soil is like perfume to the senses. It’s excruciating.
I don’t like wet, sticky, brown mud. Children play in it. Piglets wallow in it. I’d rather jump over it and move on to cleaner things.
Some say that the sound of rain on the rooftop is like a gentle lullaby. I disagree. Water drops on the palm fronds outside my window keep me awake with worries of intruders.