Last weekend, I was supposed to write about how I had a week of diligently home-cooked meals, save for one indulgence burger on a Thursday after three days at the gym. But the weekend got me – with its charm of all the things that could be. What would be was games of pickleball, trying to cement a workout-shower-eat well routine, finally catching up with my aunt for Onam and setting up my couch, and now, three days thence and two days of storm in, I can’t even remember what else I did.
I was also, in the past few weeks, to rewrite my third or fourth draft on Free will, how I was led from Autobiography of a face to East of Eden, from bleak hope to an overdue shedding of guilt. But what really happened I think is life, and I stopped reading or thinking (well, overthinking as some put it), and it has been fun.
But this evening I logged out as soon as my 4.30pm call was done and dashed to the library to pick up Em and the Big Hoom. It’s been waiting for me on the Pick up shelf. I had decided maybe I would do without reading for another week and not pick up this one after all, but today in addition to hyperactivity I also have stomach cramps on the first day of my period, so I know I’ll be in bed come late evening.
At the time of writing I’m 59 pages in. The warm, fuzzy feeling I had when I read the first half-page on the bench outside the library and left smiling (you know, that smile when you know it’s going to be a good read) is no more. It’s turning out dark and realistic, warm in places if you look for it but refrain from looking deep enough, and painfully relatable in places (it’s set in Bombay), reminding you of stuff you thought you forgot and maybe could’ve done without a reminder too. Of course these might also be the reasons why I made it this far.
It’s already stumped me a couple of times, but I’ll wait to see if I finish it.
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