Just Another Day

Before I set out to write what I really mean to, I must mention that the day has begun on a rather disappointing note. Felipe Massa losing the title to Lewis Hamilton by just one point, and that too through a freakish, improbable incident, is not very good news for someone who has admired the little Brazilian since his Sauber days. Oh well, there is always another season to come. At the moment, I am terribly glad I don't live in England, for it would be difficult to live with the deifying that the British media are probably already giving Hamilton.

Now, for a few days, I shall probably be writing my posts down on paper at home and then typing them out when I manage to find a computer. I have realised I am not good at writing out of my head in full public glare, thanks to all the mistakes I can think of in my last post. (No, don't try to go back there and nitpick- I have smoothed out most of the glaring ones.)

Sunday - 2 November, 2008

Flashes of lightning streak the folds of ghostly white cloud that shrouds large swathes of the smooth midnight sky; blazes of gold and silver, sinister and unearthly, a momentary grimace before the sky lapses back into its deceptive peace, broken intermittently by the blip of an aeroplane.

The television blares in the hall and I shut myself up in the bedroom I share with another girl. When six girls share an apartment, moments of absolute privacy are hard to come by, and yet, there is no intrusion or interference, which is almost as good.

Unfinished stories, hopeful dreams and fantasies continue to take shape in my head, little shoots seeking nourishment in soil more fertile than the kind they are currently planted in. They want to break out and become real.

The beautiful, ethereal sunsets still enchant me, swirls of clouds in amazing patterns, a different one everyday, lit up by the fading rays of the dipping sun- such beauty in parting! The most incomprehensible shades of rose, amber, gold and violet are spilt from the palette of the sky and splashed across folds of blue canvas every evening, never failing to surprise and stupefy with their glory and sheer loveliness. This, interrupted by spells of sudden, unexpected rain- the weather is one thing I really shan't complain about.

I find myself alone at home at times, and I cherish these few, rare hours of absolute freedom and privacy. I write, read, make disastrous, not-to-be-spoken-0f-secret-like-the-dead attempts at cooking. I always thought I liked small, cosy houses- I realise this house isn't too big for one person, after all. With so much space at your disposal, you can assert yourself and tailor niches to cater to each different mood, let the house exude your personality. I see the first unhealthy stirrings of materialistic ambition here- for I would love to have an apartment of my own someday, stacked from ceiling to floor with books, looking out at mountains and the sea, colour, fire and sobriety all packed into a bit of space all my own.

Oh, by the way, did I mention I am also discovering Enid Blyton's food here? While no Indian living in England has yet given me a satisfactory description of an English tea, I think I have made reasonably decent progress here, having discovered chocolate and blueberry muffins and gingerbeer. There is much else I could discover, but for my vegetarian preferences, which I guard fiercely.

And so life goes on, with unanticipated surprises at every turn, new realisations, adventures and experiences.