For the past few years, I have stayed in places which many would envy. Big sprawling houses with a lawn, might be twice the size of the house. I am still very much inclined to gardening, I know the names of various flowers, and this at times gives me an edge when I visit the plant nursery. They see me as a pro! I adore this life but when darkness descends, an occasional owl hoots, chirping of the crickets and katydids only stirs the mind other than the kids' screaming, and in such times the city girl in me tries to scrape out, tear apart the Mother India cover and run away and breathe in the chaos and noise of the traffic. There are people who know me as a perfect homemaker, devoted mother, gardener, cook, and someone who can arrange for sumptuous dinner for guests at a resplendently laid-out table with translucent porcelains, pristine linens. and a tidy platter. Nothing is untrue, but do I weigh heavier with those tags and I should embrace a part of me who would live every day not by smelling roses but the smell of fresh bread and coffee or the stench of bus diesel or even enjoy the fog of unpleasant aroma created by industrial waste and dusty roads. Which me I enjoy? A slice of both (would be a perfect answer) or at times just coming out of the cocoon of perfection or perception?
No comments:
Post a Comment