Soon February will become another forgotten page in the year's calender. Like the confused, short-lived spring that's happening at the moment. Like the fast-fading flickers of a mellow spring sun that doesn't know whether to shine or sleep. It'll be summer soon and we know how those go when one's living in the tropics. I'll be left with nothing much to share here except sun-dried rants and sultry silences.
In the meanwhile, basking in the spring mellowness, I'm taking a break. Or I was, before my editor hunted me down last evening for some issues that 'needed to be addressed'. A good, long break it was from everything—breathing quiet moments of 'just be', soaking in the quotidian, taking a sip of the everyday beauty which, in moments of worldly preoccupation, we often ignore. For a fortnight, it has been mostly books and tea, and lots of sky-watching—something which I'm very good at, if I may say so myself. It's fascinating, observing the ever-changing canvas of blue everyday, dotted with somersaulting birds and wind-propelled, moody nimbus. And the best part about watching skies is being able to love the blues, for there are these happy kinds too.
It was after a long time that I came across a brilliant read, one that grips you from page one. Having a thing for Irish literature and after many recommendations, The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox lived up to every inch of its reputation. Not essentially uplifting like the fluffy, cheerful clouds I stalk, but Maggie O'Farell's claustrophobic Edwardian world and its people will slowly and surely pull at your heartstrings. And Esme will stay with you for a while, long after you're done with the book.
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