That Woman…

BP

I see a woman, bent over a pot of hot curry, stirring it, as she smells it to assess if the ingredients had come together. If it smells like a memory, it’s cooked right, she always says. She walks with a bounce around the house to the sound of soft soul music, setting the table and laying the plates. Her peaceful eyes gleam with wisdom, they reflect the peace within. She looks exactly like her mother did at her age, but she is nothing like her mother. There is contentment in her heart and joy in her soul. Her life is of her own making, she loves it to the last bit.

She pulls her fine, black hair back into a tight bun, as she checks on the curry, still brewing, smelling like Christmas eve at her grandparents’ house when she was a little girl. The evening is getting colder, she floats across her tiny cottage shutting the windows, drawing the curtains. There are a million stars in the sky, and every night you can watch them twinkle in a rhythm.

Supper is ready and the lights are lit. She looks beyond the gate, calling her dogs by their names. They come rushing, she can see their heads bobbing over the horizon, bringing with them a gust of energy and the chilly mountain wind. She raised them since they were babies, like her own children, growing up in front of her eyes, little by little, every day. They rush to their bowls which she fills with water. They drink it splashing it all over themselves and the floor, panting as they do.

There is beauty in tranquility.
There is bliss in finding it.

Languidly Cynical

I’m not a romantic but I’m not one of those cynics either who discredit the phenomenon of love completely. I am one of those cynics who believe in the existence of romantic love but know that its existence is almost Utopian, that very lucky few will experience it in its true sense. I’m the one who, when they hear their friends say “I’m in love…”, can’t help thinking- ‘Love’? Yeah okay. Let’s see how long that idea lasts.

But admittedly, I don’t hate love songs. They make me believe in a make-believe world of perfect people where love in its purest form exists. In that world, a sincere man wearing a hat says “It cannot wait… It is our fate, I’m yours”; a lonely guy promises to wait to two more years for his girl and promises to pay the bills with his guitar; a goofy teenager loves his girlfriend’s flaws because it’s her it all adds up to and the bottom line is he’s in love with her; and a man asks a woman to let him love her until she learns to love herself. Nobody in that world calls a woman (no matter how endearingly) “shorty” or “bitch” or refers to her ‘ass’ or use any crude/ filthy innuendos. These things may or may not happen in the real world, but that doesn’t mean that I will hate listening about something as wonderfully happy. For the same reason I also believe in- Santa Claus, inheriting money from a rich unheard-of relative, my favourite pair of shoes never wearing out, the non-existence of politics, me being a dog-whisperer, dogs going to heaven, being fit without working out because climbing stairs to the office once-a-day is exercise enough, and accidentally running into Bradley Cooper and us getting along fabulously. I could go on but I won’t digress.

So, if a toddler listens to these love songs and sets high standards dreaming about the perfect partner who plays the piano and says “You’re amazing just the way you are”, I say, let them. The real world needs them to stop making bad life decisions that affect them permanently at an age when they don’t even know how to spell ‘prophylactic’.

And if you truly believe in perfect romantic love and soul mates, I envy your rose-tinted glasses.

And if you have lived it, well… good for you. Now go back to living in the Diana Ross-Lionel Ritchie song, you don’t belong here.

dont-follow-me