Missed Maska and then the burnt orange-grey furry tea cups came to tea
Today did not wrap its coat of calm around my heart still thudding with despair over Maska. Wanting her, talking to her, praying for her, letting guilt and grief gag me with their malice.
Finished boring work at the bank. Had some almonds and cashewnuts for breakfast. Drank up half of the rose scented yoghurt lassi I had bought for the patient who hates rose scent! It was dark and the lights had gone out in that street where I bought it! But it is an Amul drink and I am an Amul fan so I had it and felt a little nicer as it went down my throat.
Then I finished reading Paranormality by Professor Richard Wiseman, and became much smarter about the tricks played by psychics, fortune tellers, cults, charlatans and many more important matters. This was perhaps the brightest part of my day.
I checked out the two kittens which have invaded the terrace after their mother dumped them there. Washed up their grubby room and discovered how quickly and easily baking soda turns smelly mess into a fresh guest room for small visitors. Then put them out on the terrace where they played with the ferns and the Spider plants and with each other. Soon the sun’s warm breath locked them up inside a nap and they snoozed snugly against one another.
How does one try to bribe grief? (It does not seem to care much for roses! I walked mine around some red, yellow and pink ones but it stayed hot and hurting inside my heart.) Pay it to go elsewhere with cash? Depart from the many scolding matrons inside the soul ? It seems to lose its sharp edges around small, sweet, tender entities – those stone grey tiny kittens, like tea cups, who managed to survive that horrifying rainy night and the ghastly ghoulish loud screeching music of the cultish gangs outside the house which had frightened them away. They had run out onto the dangerous, dreadful dark street and the night had collapsed inside worry, withering dread and hopelessness. They scuttled off like squirrels into the nearby homes and could not be caught.
But one returned in the morning and spent two days and nights weeping and moaning and begging for her mother or something. Then the second one arrived and now they are snug together enjoying the food, the sunlit safety of their survival.
And as I still mourn Maska and long to vanish into some island of silence from the sour sullen clasp of racking regret, the two little grey-sapphire-orange guests tiny as tea cups from the poorest roadside tea-seller, pour their silver lining into my Maska robbed impoverishment.