Days are getting warmer where I live but dry, without wetness or scent of flowers. I write poems about indian monsoons and its dripping moisture like it’s my long distance lover. So I lit a candle or two, sometimes moringa , but if I’m feeling especially blue, lavender. I’ve started creating my own atmospheres, safe places, arrange a place to grieve and let my heart be what it wants to be, broken. A white fluffed pillow with lemon yellow embroidery for borders, lingering smell of rose oil from my face pressed against it at night, a book I’ve loved and have worn out beside me. Do not know if it’s called meditation but I close my eyes and cry for long period of time. And it’s okay, I’m not lonely, just suffering. I come out of it as a different person every time, sometimes a streak of sunlight , sometimes the shadow it casts. On afternoons my father is home early, I put ice on my puffy eyes, tie my hair up in a bun , put some colour back on my cheeks and prepare some black tea for both of us. It’s awfully quiet in our home, he sits at the dining table looking at that day’s news paper, sometimes he plays his favourite ghazals softly. The window right above the stove has the most beautiful light coming at that time of the day and sometimes I wonder if I can ever get the golden honey colour of his tea right if it wasn’t for the light, like a secret ingredient I’m always grateful for its wisdom, for its warmth when I stand there in the kitchen while the water boils. I ask him if he’d like me to add some milk, he always says no but I ask anyway , sometimes I drop an elaichi into the brew , and he looks up from his paper and gives me a smile for the difference in flavour. We sip our teas quietly, sitting across each other, munching on biscuits. He sometimes hums a melody, loses it somewhere between politics and tea and other times a call from work, he gets up and walks into the living room, his tea turns cold and the moment is gone with him.
– journal ; Meditation and Other Things That Don’t Work by Thamanna Razak