Does that look like the face of a forty six year old? I don't
know, but what I do know is that I look like I spent every second of every
minute of my life in grave pain when I wake up in the morning every fucking
day. (Don't worry I've had a pretty interesting and mostly happy life) But the
thing is my dogs and my husband are for some reason convinced that I'm the most
beautiful woman in the world and I'm more than happy to encourage their love soaked
delusions on a daily basis.
To be completely honest I haven't looked at my face for more
than a few seconds a day ever since the bloody virus showed up and most of the
world had to go under house arrest. But I'm one of those people who loved the
opportunity to be at home and live with a set routine day in and day out, never ever
leaving the divine comfort of my home. So, I completely stopped caring about what I looked
like. The thing is you only get worried about how you look when you step out in
public and actually want to resemble a human being and a woman. Lockdown to me
meant the ultimate freedom of never having to wear a bra. It might be shocking
to some of you but most of us women hate those things. I'd love it if men had
to wear a corset every single day of their life. Then we'll talk.
But then, June 23rd, 2020 began approaching and I began to get
anxious at the thought of looking at the mirror more than a few seconds so I
decided to get all dolled up but I'll be damned if I'm going to go to the salon
to get "unwanted" hair removed from my body. And as you can see, the
universe presented me with two beautiful zits on my face for my birthday and no
amount of concealer or foundation could hide them. It's been four days and they
are still present and correct but whenever I get a pesky zit, I always remember
my dear friend Cybill (He's a boy) who suffered from acne and often said with a wonderful
smile,"I love my pimples." He's all grown up and a father of two gorgeous
girls and just as handsome as he was in college minus the acne.
So you know, the lockdown has been wonderful because I care so
little about how I'm perceived by the world. And my hope is that, that will
continue to be the case when I do come out of voluntary hibernation.
The day began with a flurry of messages on various apps but Facebook decided to
behave badly and even though I tried my best to respond to all the wishes I
missed some because they just would not appear and that little frustrating
circle kept rotating like a useless broken wheel. My mother in law beat my
mother and phoned me at exactly I0:30pm which is exactly 12:00 midnight in India. This has
never happened before and when I asked my mother how could she possibly get
half an hour late in wishing me, she replied with an embarrassed giggle,"
Main Crime Patrol dekhte dekhte late ho gai!" (I got late because I got engrossed watching Crime Patrol) My mother's favourite TV shows include the aforementioned and Savdhaan India, both fictionalised versions of true crime stories. She binge watches them. I’m convinced that my morbid curiosity about serial killers is probably the fault of my genes inherited from her.
The doorbell rang and I received a little bag with bath salts, bath bombs, soap and two
pieces of my favourite Pave chocolate cake from Shakespeare cafe (Just in case you ever want to buy me cake). There was a note with it and that's my favourite part of the gifts Natasha sent me. I miss handwritten notes and letters so terribly. It is one of my deepest wishes to receive a letter in the
mail. People my age will understand what it means to read a lovingly written letter by someone who cared enough to spend the time and make the effort. I once started writing a letter to my father when I was distressed about something while studying at NID. I never sent it because I knew how worried he would be but the act of writing it consoled me to such an extent that there was really no need to mail
it to him.
The doorbell rang again after a while and these flowers arrived with a note that simply said, "NIKKIPON!" This word has a very interesting
history. When my husband and brother in law were kids one of them stuck his hand in a
shoe and gently caressed the other's arm with the sole and kept
saying,"Nikkipon! Nikkipon! Nikkipon!" Kids do the darndest things so it's
pointless trying to make sense of it all the time. There's no logic.
Anshuman continued this time tested method of irritating a
person silly with me. And believe me it is sooo irritating and yet somehow so
incredibly funny to the person who's doing the irritating. I opened up the plastic
wrapping and a litre of water poured out onto the dining table and the floor. I
mopped and cleaned. I had to cut the stems of the flowers for which I used a scissor and
ended up cutting my finger which bled all
over the kitchen
counter. I praised myself for having organised the medicine cabinet recently
making it easy to find a band aid. Prior to the said organisation, I knew I had about a
Hundred and Twenty Seven bandaids, I just didn't have a way of locating one before bleeding out and
possibly dying. And no that's not the infamous "flipping the finger".
I swear I just wanted my friends to know I hurt myself on my birthday so they
would go,"Awww!" They're the only ones with enough patience to read
my blog and understand my deep seated need for being mollycoddled.
The flowers withered eventually and I think after telling me to
collect the dried flowers, Anshuman put them in a blender and hit frappe. They
ended up in a pretty ceramic bowl smelling like lavender because he poured essential
oil into the mix so essentially I now have pot pourri masala which smells like
Lavender. I like Lavender and last I heard Anshuman burnt the masala in my stone oil
diffuser.
It smelled nice and I'm used to my husband's penchant
for pyrotechnics. Moral of the story is that I loved the flowers he sent. I loved the purple roses and the purple gerberas and the white roses and the lone red rose bud which got stuck in there accidentally by the florist. Most of all I loved all the effort he put into thinking about how he could make them last as long as possible. I mean he grinded them into a fine powder but I could appreciate the thought.
Natasha sent me two pieces of cake. I ate one before Anshuman
got home from work. I cut the other one and blew out the candle and made a wish
and sang the birthday song for myself along with the husband. I always sing for
myself on my birthday and am often the loudest. I mean, why wouldn't you sing
for yourself? You must. I fed Anshuman a tiny piece of cake and ate the rest of
it. I'm not good at sharing things. I can give away my things very easily but I
don't do well at all with sharing. It still kills me when I have to share food because
I'm an adult. I have declared more than once at a restaurant that I will not
share my Creme Brulee. I'd rather get six separate desserts than share mine.
And the last thing that happened that night was that I smelled
something burning very faintly. I went downstairs to the kitchen and realised
that I was craving a late night Maggi and had left it simmering on low flame. There
was smoke everywhere and I had to open all the windows. The pot was charred so
I threw it out. I decided to stay downstairs in the heat and humidity without
air conditioning on one of the hottest nights of the year. I sat on the couch
sweating for almost three hours and eventually closed the windows thinking
Anshuman will never find out but when I did a sniff check the distinct
fragrance of burnt noodles hung in the air like a little kid who always tattles
on his naughty classmates.
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