Tea

There's something special about earthen pots and ginger tea - something that goes missing in the mug. Except that one time on a bandh day when the chaiwala puts his all into pleasing his solitary group of customers with the steaming brown liquid in a dettol-washed glass.

The bhaanrs are so hot to touch, that all concentration is on not dropping the tea - you don't want to get scalded. You blow softly over the surface, wondering if some khaari biscuits with coconut stuffing could be an add-on. You sip slowly, gingerly, taking care not to burn your tongue. The sips get larger, till you're left emptying the contents down your throat. And then you tilt the bhaanr and strain for the last drop.

It's peaceful.

There should be more things like this.

Aaaargh!

This is proving to be one crazy year man. There's crisis after crisis after crisis after crisis. Fuckity-fuck-fuck totally. Imagine me sitting at my computer with electrocuted hair, pausing between typings to wrench out the burnt out (once-upon-a-time) tresses.

Dear Mr. Santa Claus,

I know I didn't bother with that pre-Christmas I-want-this-and-that letter to you last December. And I don't know if you also deal in luck, but I'd like some please. Some super-duper-trooper good luck and a few 24-hour days of utter peace. Make that a week at least. I've been very good for a long time now. I think I deserve it.

Lotsa lowe and big hug

Poojo