The lethargic,loose-ended rabbit!

I've been pampering myself with luxury lately. Lots of time to just settle into the new life I have become acquainted with. At the end of most days, if I try to take stock of what exactly I have accomplished, it would take not considerate effort in arriving at result zilch. Well, hugs to me. I love me.

So prolonged leave from work - physical and professional. The only thing I exert my mind over is the ocassional su-doku in the Hindu. I read, constant mental exercises keep Alzhimer's/Parkinson's at bay. I think thats the only illness I'm saving myself from considering my lethargic lifestyle. I've taken the liberty of being foolish and procrastinating about everything I have to do. Money, exams, work, weight. Damn! the last word of that sentence really hurts now. And the harder it hurts, the lesser I do anything about. Thats my definition of tolerance I think. So even though I know nobody really reads this stuff anymore (boo-hoo!! sob!sob!)I still think its worth spending my early morning on.

I'm hoping this phase is drawing to a close. I think my loose ends are being tied up. Nah! I'm not dying yet. Things are not thaaaat final. I'll still be around. I feel like a rabbit now. And on that note, Amen!!!

Cheers to a brighter tomorrow!

Of Cooking and Cowardly Writing

I'm tempted to start this post by explaining my absence so long. Its a horde of reasons. I read this line somewhere:

...you know its a good blog when you have to pause a second before giving the address to someone you already know because there is stuff in there that you do not really want to share...

So there has been more than one ocassion where I've resisted the urge to just come here and pour my heart out, and fret about all those little mean, ugly and nasty things that happened to me or rave and rant about the little sweet somethings that my life has suddenly become filled with, post marriage.

So call me a coward, if thats what it is, but I just can't get myself to spill that fervent emotion here in this space, like I have done on many an ocassion before.

But all this wrangle apart, I have been doing some good stuff on the home front. And I've tried my culinary talent, much to H's delight. One of my own, original recipes, has been published by a dear blog friend here . Inspired by that, I decided to dish out another creative yummy delight, which made us (H and I) laugh till our stomachs ached, and almost made us go hungry last night. Here is what you should not try:

Never mix mango puree with whole wheat flour and have the mistaken impression that you could possibly dole out a mango paratha. Well that just does not happen. What really happens you will waste nearly 2 juicy, tasty mangoes and half a kilo of wheat flour. But if you really want a good laugh, do something more original.

Had your share of cooking disasters? Leave them here...

Living from the pages

Suddenly last evening I felt like I had grown wings.I had walked out of a book shop with some modest shopping in my hands.I had never loved myself as much before. My act was somehow empowering, enhancing, exciting and such similar superlatives that put me up on a pedestal so high, that even I could not reach me.The whole feeling was oddly romantic, and supremely pleasurable.

I cannot claim to be a voracious reader. But I do justice enough to call reading an interest, and have come so far as to have nutured a palate for such writing that is simple enough to implant in me a bit of the story itself.

I live in a collective of my own worlds, built from silly tales of speaking animals and impressive characters from my favourite stories. I live in the descriptive smells of cauldrons boiling with soup and the verbose narrations of the market place of suburban mumbai.I can hear the sounds when I read - be that Noddy's toy car or the brutal beating cracked down on a wife. My chest explodes with breath, as the words unravel before my eyes.

I see every scene as a page out of a writer's book. As if it was her creation and her painting. As if it took birth in text, in slanted cursive writing on yellowing parchment, that was tied into a bundle with some coir rope and abandoned into a corner to gather sweet smelling dust.And when I see it, murky at first and vivdly later,it all looks so unreal. So evasive.Yet enticing enough to beckon me to live in it. And so I do. Live each scene from my life like a chapter from a story that I did not pen. I feel philosophical in one sense. As if I have just conjured up my own theory of life. And then it runs away- my theory- skimpers away like a rabbit, closes itself like touch-me-not even before I reach it.