Skip to main content

Hot Indian Summers

Hot Indian summers get to your head. I don't know about everyone else, but I find it difficult to adjust to the brightness of summer here, especially when I step out of the office. My eyes hurt from the radiance of the sun, especially at high noon.

You get into the cab, with the dust filled air.. the heat's drained away all the moisture from the soil, winds of dry dust swept every where. I wear sun shades, god knows what else is flying in the air. I've heard horror stories of glass flying into people's eyes. And then I also imagine insect eggs and the sort flying in the wind with the dust cloud. That's just me imagining things though.

And then I get home, wash off all the dust in a quick shower. Wash my hands profusely with tons and tons of the dettol liquid handwash.. I don't know why, but I love washing my hands with it. I think I wash my hands more because I love it. Eat.

Run out into the garden, look at my plants. The fern's budding, and I have an amazingly beautiful peach coloured rose plant. But what I can't miss out on, is the fact that summer's here and the soil is more alive. I can see ants of about three different sizes foraging for food, beetles and flies buzzing in the air.

And then it hit me.

Love= lips, heart and pussy.

And I thought, well, isn't that nice.

BTW: Using pussy as a word isn't derogatory, if I've got one.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Celebrations

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 16 ; the sixteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton . It was a hard ground that felt like sand paper. When he started his journey, it was the soles of his feet that were in contact with the ground, but now as he pulled himself closer to the station, it was his whole body. His elbows were scraped, bloody and fresh scab peeled bled out to leave a trail of red on the wicked hot dusty ground of pain and suffering. All around him slow moving bodies crawled towards the direction of hope, all along leaving patterns of blood, sweat, skin and pus. These bodies had seen civil wars, droughts, genocide and lived to tell a tale of a people who now belonged to a nation listed as one of the poorest countries in the world. This is now, but before the list, was a struggle of massive proportions, under reported and quietly hidden

Escape

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 10 ; the tenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton . The Temple Widow A narrow dirt path, generously peppered with tiny pebbles, tiny miniatures of their gargantuan ancestors, leads to a bridge. It hangs, rickety and old. Old but not well used, old like abandoned and not frequently used. The bridge hangs low over a small stream that slowly gurgles past, happy unlike those that visit the place. The bridge leads to a temple. It is not very big, only perhaps the size of a small hut and at the most the size of an average temple hall. The temple has no deity; the temple has no one corner that doesn’t look like the other. It is clean, well swept, and empty. It has no furniture, and excepting a series of well spaced out windows, the walls remains uninterrupted. She stumbles in, the lady. She is not very tal

Time Travel

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 8 ; the eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton . I haven't got the memory of a vedic tantric. Neither do I ever claim to remember all. All I know is what I know, question my memory if you want to. I don't ask you to remember, I don't ask you to believe. In fact, I'm not asking you for anything at all. It is your choice to be here, to read this. So no, I don't owe you a favor. I happened to chance upon a watch, on one of my travels. Turning the dials of such a watch, could transport you to the past, to the future, to any time. But time, my friend, is not how you think it is. It is not a straight line, and you cannot just by chance hop into the world of dinosaurs and wooden weapons. It is a series of transparencies, like films of clean sheets of paper laid on top of each other. You look from above