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Mistakes.

Some mistakes are worth repeating because that’s how (and who) we are:

Incorrigible.

Irreparable.

Irreplaceable

Winding up

In a constant state of  writing frenzy, it occurs to me that my time (in Edinburgh) is running out.

I’ll soon have to say goodbye to my cobbled-stoned streets, hidden parks, quirky buildings, and favourite baristas.

No more cooking in tiny kitchens, meals with far too much Red Leicester,

In a few days, the city won’t belong to me, and my little aashiyana will have a new occupant.

I won’t have my table at Levels, nor will the guys at 9a remember me. Perhaps they will move too.

There won’t be hours at the library, nor tedious weekly shops.

There won’t be impulse purchase of books I can’t afford to carry back home

Nor plans of barbecues under the stars.

The castle won’t impose on my skyline,

There won’t be a short walk to work / friends / art.

But I’ll leave a piece of my heart here

And haunt old buildings, terraces, and cold, rainy paths

Because no matter where I go, I’ll always have Edinburgh.

Happy Birthday, Aie,

She’s a perfectionist, my mom

Food has to be just right,

The house spotless,

But she cares more about things in your head.

Feelings, consideration, pragmatic decisions

A bunch of laughs, late night poetry,  snarky inside jokes

Foreign soaps, dubbed, ridiculous, but still followed.

Conversations that delight, frustrate, and make you think

Songs that she’ll know I need.

So many things that are special but don’t fit into a blog post

But here’s to a party I missed, to sizzles, and chats, to love that always grows.

Happy birthday, Aie! 🙂

 

Restraint

Has anyone ever written an ode to restraint?

Saying no to the second helping of divine cheesecake, or to refuse a drink, or just walk away from another show / toxic person / day of procrastination?

If growing up is about maturity, and learning deal with ourselves, a key skill to pick up is restraint. Someone should write an ode to restraint. In praise of wise choices, sidestepped temptations, not giving into fear, neither prejudice nor impulse.

Restraint makes you a better person. It makes you stronger, more sensitive and less fat.

For a Good Life

What do you need for a life well-lived?

Mum and dad.

Music, art, food

Family that charm, challenge, love

Overwhelming love for (and of)  your nieces

Unconditional love of a pet

Respect for a few people

The comfort of a warm and safe home

The wisdom of books

Friends

Challenges at work, but the potential to do well

Songs that make you think, dream, and smile

Compassion and empathy

A sense that the world is much wider than you’ve ever anticipated

Cynicism that fades away

Banter

A sense of awe that remains

A bucket list that keeps growing

A story you want to tell, a tune bursting out of you…

More.

If I’ve not said this already, goodbyes are the worst.

A fortnight flew in a heartbeat and all that’s left behind on this rainy afternoon is an ache in your heart. It’s an ache that can be dealt with (temporarily) by frozen puran polis,  upma, besan ladoos, theplas, ready-to-eats, and assorted sweets.

I want more. More time, more walks, more books, more hugs. More mornings looking over the castle, drinking tea, and anticipating pohe. More earnest conversations, more foosball, more singing, more improvising with chords, more gossip.

More time with Maushi. More Dada singing. More laughter with Pumps. More conversations with Kanu.

For now, I have more food than I need, so I’ll make do. Only two months and eight days to go.

Looking for Stories

It finally stopped raining, and although chilly, I came outside, to the garden, to write. My fleece sweater won’t keep me warm, but just being outside is inspiring. I know I have only a few minutes, but what glorious few minutes these are!

I can’t hear the electricity, but the roar of the English Channel. Seagulls fly overhead, and I know there are seals in the ocean, playful, like dogs of the sea. A ship floats by, low and without any cargo.

The lighthouse behind me isn’t flashing a signal yet, and the rocks don’t seem as threatening as they did in the morning.  An evening unfolds and I think of the walk this morning, by the coasts, precariously walking paths, watching a ruthless ocean, feeling inspired. I want a story, I really want a story. A story of an artist, a fisherman, a little pixie who’s bored of living in Cornwall, ANY STORY.

I shiver and tremble, I look onto the evening, and hope that someday, in a location just like this, a story will find me.