I must appreciate the mornings more. They are bouquets of such fuzzy delights. I wake up after a night of fitful sleep and try to stretch the first lazy moment of the day. Before long, I’ll have to switch on the computer and begin peddling my resume or getting on to my office tasks. The fresh fragrance will be gone before I even start noticing the wilt. So, here’s to days with deep, deep whiffs.
Today. The dreamy, grey drizzle and mottled sparrow wings from behind frog-colored leaves. A slow and slick earthworm curling up on a white pebble. And a bizarre sight of a rambunctious puppy splashing about in a puddle with a khakra in his mouth.
Then, there was my steaming chai with a plate of spicy poha. I don’t really like poha but the way one of my cooks makes them is wonderful. He cuts up potatoes in really little pieces and fries them along with the poha. These chunks are like delightful, unexpected presents and their crispy, crusts of chilli powder, turmeric and salt is tasty.
Sometimes, the morning also means rushing about in an auto, sipping a Mc Donald’s coffee through a wet, humid tunnel.
And sometimes, it’s just getting up in the middle of a difficult hour to feel the spine of a poetry book. And remember that Endymion still lives on the finger tips.
Today. The dreamy, grey drizzle and mottled sparrow wings from behind frog-colored leaves. A slow and slick earthworm curling up on a white pebble. And a bizarre sight of a rambunctious puppy splashing about in a puddle with a khakra in his mouth.
Then, there was my steaming chai with a plate of spicy poha. I don’t really like poha but the way one of my cooks makes them is wonderful. He cuts up potatoes in really little pieces and fries them along with the poha. These chunks are like delightful, unexpected presents and their crispy, crusts of chilli powder, turmeric and salt is tasty.
Sometimes, the morning also means rushing about in an auto, sipping a Mc Donald’s coffee through a wet, humid tunnel.
And sometimes, it’s just getting up in the middle of a difficult hour to feel the spine of a poetry book. And remember that Endymion still lives on the finger tips.
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