Dear Blog,
How are you? It’s been a chilly few weeks here. We’ve reached that part of the year where everything starts to feel a bit… beige. I don’t know about you, but I always find the stretch from April to July oddly uninspiring—like a waiting room for the rest of the year. Maybe it’s just me, but that’s how it feels.
Come August, though, something shifts. There’s a slight buzz in the air, a quiet hopefulness that I love. It helps that the months ahead are peppered with festivals, holidays, and the general promise of more colour. Suddenly, there’s always something to look forward to.
On Books and a Quiet Corner of the Internet
Do I have anything particular to tell you? Not really. Nothing momentous. But checking in feels good. A few thoughts have been brewing—some are better left to the journal, and some I can let loose here. Like how I haven’t felt like posting book reviews on Instagram lately. I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m subconsciously saving it all up for #decbooklove—easily one of the highlights of December every year.
There’s something so heartening about watching a bunch of bibliophiles come together on social media—not for likes or followers, but for the sheer joy of talking about books. It feels like a low-key book club, minus the pressure. All year, we quietly read in our corners just to bring something wonderful to the table in December. And somehow, that feels like enough.
This year also marks the 11th edition of my “I’m weird because…” post. I meant to write it today, but the mood didn’t quite show up. Maybe next time. I have a feeling I’ll still be writing those when I’m a withered old woman—squinting at my screen and laughing at my own quirks. Maybe all of this will become my autobiography someday—the PG version, of course.
In the Garden (Sort Of)
Lately, I’ve also been “gardening.” And I use that term generously. I’ve been sowing flower seeds and chillies with cautious optimism. I even have climbing rose seeds waiting in the wings, but I think I’ll let the current experiments either bloom or bomb before I graduate to that level of ambition.
Let’s just say I don’t have a green thumb. The most I’ve managed to grow are a few stunted tomatoes—which, in a moment of misplaced pride, I gifted to my parents. This would be less embarrassing if they hadn’t just harvested kilos of glorious, robust tomatoes from their own terrace garden. But that’s me—relentlessly hopeful, even when the odds (and the plants) are stacked against me.
I’ll keep you posted on the flowers and chillies. A couple of sprouts popped up, waved a tiny green hello, and promptly keeled over. So… maybe don’t bet on a garden party just yet.
I’ll be back after a cup of tea, and we’ll chat again.
The Ginger Was Possibly Irish!
I’m back. Spent some time sipping ginger tea while reading Paper Heart, the upcoming book by Cecelia Ahern. It’s started well, and I can’t wait to see where she takes it. Sitting alone, sipping tea while reading is not so bad. I’m essentially a loner, and I quite like it that way. It’s often misunderstood, but I figure the people who need to understand it… do. And that’s enough.
That’s not to say I don’t enjoy company—I do. But it’s the kind of company where I can simply be myself, where the wavelengths match and words don’t need editing. Or, at times, you don’t need words at all. If you can tolerate silence together, then you have something special. I prefer it this way. It protects my peace. Because let’s face it, I’m not exactly cut out for the full-time job that is navigating human interaction.
That said, I do observe. I notice how people react, speak, and shift in silence. I’d even call myself a fairly astute observer, if I may say so—and that only reaffirms my choice to keep to myself. But why am I telling you all this? Maybe the ginger was Irish.
The Great Makeup Mission (A Comedy)
This week, I went to a store to buy foundation for an upcoming event. Since my makeup routine begins and ends with kajal and lipstick, this was like wandering into another universe without a guide. The sales lady kindly informed me I needed primer, too. I wasn’t about to buy something I’d use once (unless it’s a book!), so I asked my friend, who, in true solidarity, was just as clueless as I was.
Enter my sister, my in-house beauty department. She declared (with authority) that yes, primer was non-negotiable. So I searched for the one she recommended, while the sales lady tried to steer me toward another. But I held my ground—because if I was walking blindfolded into this, my sister on WhatsApp was the only clutch I had.
You may wonder why I didn’t order online, but this wasn’t something I could risk getting wrong. I’d rather not end up looking like a mismatched paint sample. In the end, I walked out with nothing except renewed respect for people who do 10- or 20-step makeup routines. I don’t think I have the energy for that. Give me a chunky novel and a hot beverage—I’ll dive in happily. Makeup? Not in this lifetime, thanks.
In Which I Accidentally Redraw a Map
The other day, I met someone who asked how far my house was from where we were. Now, I’m terrible when it comes to measurements. I’ve ordered too much or too little of things simply because—let’s face it—I suck at estimations. Distances? Even worse.
So when this poor soul asked, I confidently blurted out “2 to 3 kilometres.” As I was saying it, my brain caught up and whispered, “That is most definitely wrong.” But by then it was out there in the world, echoing off walls and ears. No take-backs.
The saving grace? I’ll probably never meet that person again. But really—why am I like this?
Mornings, Alarms, and a Jaljeera Plot Twist
June has also brought with it the tyranny of early alarms. M’s school is back in session, and weekend mornings are for football coaching. For someone who genuinely enjoys sleep, this new reality is… testing. You’d think I’d make up for it by sleeping early, but no—I resist that idea with passion (even though I now crash by 10:30 anyway).
What I need is one week. Just one (for now!). No school, no coaching, no alarms. But unless the universe surprises me, I don’t see that happening before the Durga Puja holidays. Ah well. It is what it is.
Oh, and before I sign off—I’ve developed a sudden love for jaljeera. But not the regular kind. No, mine has a hint of chilli. I even tried making it at home the other day. The things that take my fancy, honestly. Even I can’t predict them. Maybe next week I’ll fall in love with pickleball. Who knows?
That’s all for now.
Keep well, dear blog.