The Hardest Thing To Do

The hardest thing to do, I’ve just realised, is to not be too critical, on your self. To not be too hard , on your self. To give yourself ‘some’ credit, to let you appreciate yourself that you ‘can’ do some things right at least.





Some days are harder than the others.

That’s what I was going to write about. But then I remembered Seth.

In fact, it was Darling who introduced this trick to me. I was feeling down and out yesterday evening and I was trying to explain to him why and he randomly brought up the subject of Seth.

I quickly launched into an animated monologue about the little one , my woes suddenly forgotten. But not before I noticed what my husband had been kind enough to do.

So here I am thinking about Seth.

How at six months, he sits and looks at the world with such wide eyed wonder that it makes you look at the world a little differently yourself.

I once saw him gazing at a bunch of wesak lanterns hung on the neighbors porch with absolute amazement. His eyes were wide, there was no smile, just complete awe at the paper frills swaying gently in the wind. He couldn’t break his gaze away.

Now when I kiss his little fingers, he turns his head to look at me with the same wonder. He seems to ask , “what, in the world are you  doing !?!” and this thought makes me laugh . I kiss his little leg and he twists his body and look at me . He looks at the spot where I kissed him, looks back at me, in complete wonder. What, did she just do? What, is that called?

That kid , I tell you, he’s got me ( and everyone at home ) wrapped around his little finger. But more than that, he gives me happy thoughts. For a moment, or two perhaps, I am able to not be miserable about life.


A little feather and me

Sitting in a trishaw. Going home in the evening  from work. Musing the evening light , lack of traffic, jealousy, carelessness, mortality. And how depressing it all really is , if  you let it get to you.

Suddenly, a flutter. Of something. I see it from the corner of my right eye. My thought process is disrupted and I feel a spark of annoyance. I don’t like my thoughts disrupted.

A feather. A white little feather. Suspended in mid air inside the moving trishaw. Passing me, pausing in front of my eyes , a little flutter again. What , is it trying to say ? I try not to feel too happy about it’s sudden presence.

I feel a little ashamed. My thoughts , which were disrupted half a second ago by this beautiful little thing, were buzzing around speedily in my head. All tangled up in one another, all confused and sad and who knows what else.

And this little feather, suspended in mid air in front of me, completely unbound by mortal thought. Oh how gloriously free !

A little flutter again and it plasters itself to the back of the trishaw driver’s pink t-shirt. I scowl, wanting to grab it in my fingers.

It flutters away again , this time out the trishaw, but back in front my eyes again. I reach out slightly with my fingers, but it slips away.

It suddenly lands on my nose, and I chuckle, the trishaw driver looks back at me, I try to touch the feather, but it does its little dance, drops to my knee and away it goes in the wind !

I settle back in the uncomfortable seat and let the traffic zoom me by.

Piaggios and bad days

When I woke up, I had no headache. Two minutes in though, throbbing of the right temple something bad. Maybe it was a result of not being handed over my mug of tea by hubby. He was still in bed when I woke up having run an errand at 4.30 am. Usually he’d wake up a minute before me and get the tea ready. I’d come to the kitchen blurry eyed and annoyed that I have to be up, ready to snap,  he’d hand me my tea even before a good morning kiss. Wise man that one. I am instantly pacified and must seem a little tamed at this point onwards. When I’ve downed about half the mug, hubby would offer conversation.

In any case, the day could only go downhill since the lack of tea. I had to make my own, to start with, and I got all the cooking backwards . I forgot to fry the garlic before adding the pasta , ( we are having pasta for lunch today, sue me. ) , there was not enough salt or chillie in the coconut sambol for breakfast. We ate red rice.

Hubby didn’t say boo. After I watched him hawk like for a minute to see if he was judging me, I offered salt.

Then he went his way and I ordered a tuk tuk to come to work . I usually call a trishaw company to send me one. Today out of all days, they sent me, wait for it,  a Piaggio. If you’ve never seen one, I pray that you don’t because, these things, they are vile. They are so noisy, you know they are on their way from a mile away. They are huge for trishaws and tall and rattles and bounces with such vigor you’d get a headache in a minute. Their diesel engines make such a racket , you’ll be partially deaf half the morning. Groaning loudly, I made myself get in and got myself to work, but this did very little to perk up my spirits. In fact, it did quite the opposite.

It’s just one of those days.

Bought some coconut cake from a  man selling food from the side of the road and they are the only ones acting as a silver lining to the very dreary looking cloud that is my day.


Write About Something Else


Here at last, we shall be free.

Write about something that makes you feel uncomfortable.

Write about something that makes you worry what other people will think.

Write with black ink on a white page in a quiet room, so you can hear the nib tattooing the paper.

Write with your headphones on, bashing away at the keyboard, angrily.

Write in the speech bubbles that come off a comic book character’s head.

Write a short play about the inner turmoil that dominated your misspent youth.

Write a violent critique of a self-indulgent play about the inner-turmoil that dominated a misspent youth.

Write to try and sound like Hemingway, Saul Williams, Bukowski, EE Cummings, Adam Duritz, Rumi, Alan Watts or someone else.

Write to try and capture your own unique voice and take on things.

And if one day, there’s nothing left to write about, then that’s the exciting part.

Because the need to write, will remain, and…

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