Bits

(1)
It’s all a part of the morning, the remains of a dream, the beginnings of bustle from the neighbouring flats, the sweet smell of prawns being shelled. And why, why must Nathana stuff her wardrobe with naphthalene balls? Must she do her cleaning up on the morning she shells the prawns? And then of course the offender herself floats into the room, already chirpy at eight on a Sunday morning. It’s terrible, terrible to wake up on a Sunday. The relics of dreams still hover there somewhere – inviting, waiting to be banished. Yet there is such guilt in succumbing – because it’s such a fine morning, a fine Sunday morning.

A trip to the beach perhaps. Maybe later, when the sun is a little reticent. Or a visit to the new bookshop. Get a haircut. Anything. And that smell – that queer combination of naphthalene and prawns. All over the flat. But Nathana positively glows when you praise her cooking. You get the feeling of her thinking that you will remember this day, when she cooks you such-and-such. And maybe you will. There is, in her cooking, a peculiar way in which order presents itself. Almost as if there is delight in the knowledge that the tomatoes, potatoes, onions, kottamalai and everything else have to give in to being chopped, torn, sautéed, julienned. But then if she should put things in order, these are about all she could get her hands on. These go under the knife, into the frying pan, are manipulated on serving dishes, made over into something lovely. What small loveliness one can manage. What small orderliness.

(2)
Perfection can so easily be this, here: a steaming cup of coffee, a fresh novel to be read, a few unread messages waiting in the mobile phone. The sense of anticipation. The thrill. If there is anything she loathes about herself, it is this – this greed she has, a craving always for suspense. For delicious moments. She thinks that if she were to write a book, it will be a cheerless one. Which makes her common – much too common. Isn’t it funny the way people are gravitated towards sadness – even in art, even in things that are meant to be beautiful? The stories told and retold are sad ones; the most popular songs speak of loss. And yet we crave happiness – moments that are always too large when they happen that we wish they dawdle, so we can portion them out, taking a little at a time.

And of course it’s impossible to be perfectly happy – to be happy in that uncontaminated way. The world has a knack of sneaking in. The way the room is, now. Sunlight penetrates into the room even with the windows closed; the dust dancing, falling in the shaft of light. How does one shut that out, really? There are echoes of an argument from the flat downstairs. Somewhere in the street, someone is asking for his ball back. Things find their way in, even with the windows and the doors shut. Even with her stubborn determination to attend only to her coffee, her novels, her mails. Still, still, one has to isolate oneself somehow.