The worst part about living alone is having the time alone to comprehend that you are alone. It is about remembering better times past, and wondering if they will ever return.
As I sit alone in my apartment on this Sunday evening, sipping hot Chai, I am drawn back to those hot Sunday evenings in Vizag, where I would volunteer to make tea for everyody at home. I would start off boiling the milk and water seperately, then grinding out elaichi and ginger after the boiling was done. I guess I was too alarmed to let the boiling liquids out of my sight! Finally the elaborate ritual would end some twenty minutes later with a tray of four cups brought out with ceremony. I don't remember how the tea tasted, but it was never received with less gusto than a five-course meal by my mom and dad. My sister was more realistic sometimes, but often she was probably afraid that I would drink her cup too. The delightful snacks were the titbits of conversation loosely centered around the world, topics chosen with the certainty of Heisenberg's electron. This was our regular family time, since, thanks to my awful timings, full-family dinners had become a rarity. Tea-time was often stretched over a couple of hours, with the tea cups having dried up long since, and my mom complaining that making tea includes washing the dishes afterwards. I, who had invariably never known such rules, would leave, giving her a hug saying so. You see, my second cuppa was getting cold on the beach where the rest of the gang had already gathered. That one's for another day though...
Those precious moments are past. I sip my tea by myself now, having reduced the ritual to a few minutes. It's interesting to note that the quality of tea has increased considerably, while the quality of tea-time has plumetted. Yet, I make tea everyday. More than the relaxing effect of the brew, it takes me back to those evenings, when I didn't have to sit by myself in the balcony, staring at the sky and the stars, pondering about why my code didn't work that day, and whether I had paid the rent on time. Those evenings when I had lived in good ol' Vizag with my family. After five years of living by myself, I suddenly don't see the point of it all, when I am no longer home. Sending gifts home is not touching enough anymore for me. Heck, it's not even novel anymore. To me, nothing compares to just being home. and hence, on this 21st of June, 2005, I am not sending any gifts or wishes home.
Amma and daddy, on your thirtieth wedding anniversary, all I wish is that I could make tea everyday for you both again, soon....
As I sit alone in my apartment on this Sunday evening, sipping hot Chai, I am drawn back to those hot Sunday evenings in Vizag, where I would volunteer to make tea for everyody at home. I would start off boiling the milk and water seperately, then grinding out elaichi and ginger after the boiling was done. I guess I was too alarmed to let the boiling liquids out of my sight! Finally the elaborate ritual would end some twenty minutes later with a tray of four cups brought out with ceremony. I don't remember how the tea tasted, but it was never received with less gusto than a five-course meal by my mom and dad. My sister was more realistic sometimes, but often she was probably afraid that I would drink her cup too. The delightful snacks were the titbits of conversation loosely centered around the world, topics chosen with the certainty of Heisenberg's electron. This was our regular family time, since, thanks to my awful timings, full-family dinners had become a rarity. Tea-time was often stretched over a couple of hours, with the tea cups having dried up long since, and my mom complaining that making tea includes washing the dishes afterwards. I, who had invariably never known such rules, would leave, giving her a hug saying so. You see, my second cuppa was getting cold on the beach where the rest of the gang had already gathered. That one's for another day though...
Those precious moments are past. I sip my tea by myself now, having reduced the ritual to a few minutes. It's interesting to note that the quality of tea has increased considerably, while the quality of tea-time has plumetted. Yet, I make tea everyday. More than the relaxing effect of the brew, it takes me back to those evenings, when I didn't have to sit by myself in the balcony, staring at the sky and the stars, pondering about why my code didn't work that day, and whether I had paid the rent on time. Those evenings when I had lived in good ol' Vizag with my family. After five years of living by myself, I suddenly don't see the point of it all, when I am no longer home. Sending gifts home is not touching enough anymore for me. Heck, it's not even novel anymore. To me, nothing compares to just being home. and hence, on this 21st of June, 2005, I am not sending any gifts or wishes home.
Amma and daddy, on your thirtieth wedding anniversary, all I wish is that I could make tea everyday for you both again, soon....
