A day like a perfectly buttered toast

Here I am in Noida in a friend's place. He'd bought two bean bags the other day and we stuffed them with, well, thermocol beans. It is quite an arduous task if you must know. Your back and shoulders hurt (or rather mine did).

Anyway, there's a slim balcony outside the bedroom. It overlooks the apartment complex - all grid-like and neat and tidy with rows of cars lined up oh-so-proper. From the top and enough distance, you forget the real bit of chaos that awaits you when you get down on the ground.

I woke up early. It was six o'clock in the morning. My friend was asleep. His dog, Schenal, was quiet. The house had peace and silence wafting through it like incense.

I took up Rushdie's newest novel, 'The Golden House.'

Schenal and I made coffee. Rather I made, explaining the process to her. She seemed interested enough until I started stirring in sugar. She lost interest then but stayed outside the kitchen giving me a very kind form of companionable silence.

Then I settled down in the bean bag with my coffee and novel to read. There was a sweet, happy dog looking curiously at the ceremony. The world was stirring. It has been nearly five months since I picked up a book to read for pleasure. It has been endless days since I woke up exhausted or anxious about unfinished work. It has possibly been moons since the sour taste of resentment of the ordinary drudgery of a freelance life hits you - no time for self and then finally, no self.

But this morning, things were deep and good. Life seemed to have mellowed. Heart was beating at a pace that seemed human and unrushed. The blood in my veins felt cool.

This morning was special because it just made sense. If you give Time time, you get your peace prize. No matter what has been eroded away until you get to that spot.

As Camus put it, 'Peace is the only battle worth waging.'