Made one of my favourite mutton dishes after returning from Ahmedabad: Achari gosht.
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I am still stuck to the desktop so I prefer writing at my desk at home, which looks out into a few trees and a bit of sky. The light coming in through the window does help. But I am never aware of it, or not aware that I am. I love writing in the morning with a cup of Earl Grey tea, when my thoughts are still fresh. I write in the afternoon only if I am not sleepy after lunch. If I don’t find an excuse (am desperately looking for) to move out in the evening, I write till the time I must make dinner. I mostly avoid writing after dinner (unless I feel I might lose an incoming thought) as I want to prepare my mind to relax before sleeping. I am not the same person I know, when I write. I don’t belong to myself when I write. Writing is a seizure. I can feel as I write, I am also being written. Words write me.
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My first wooden bookshelf from Amar Colony.
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This corner is where I most find myself. I am always half missing in other places.
