Lifting myself from under the sheets; or pulling out of a Jaipuri, a duvet, a razai, or a clutch of soft-warm arms is a curse for the first 120 seconds of the day. I only want to be interacting with that something special which had enveloped me for the night. For the next ten minutes I don’t want to be seen by anyone nor do I want to see anyone while I offer thanks and prayers to Ra-Horakhty, the combo of Egyptian gods of light and heat.
A glass of water later and a walk out to the terrace having said my greetings to the seven horses that pull the royal chariot of Surya, the only thing I want to smell and see is a cup of hot coffee.
Minutes later, I am still blurred and spaced out – the hair as if an eleven thousand volt current cut through my body from north to south – the eyes still puffed up; the cheeks still red in part and off-colour in other areas slowly sucking the colours back from last night’s half a bottle of rum. The next thing I want to see in my hands is the book that was delicately placed on the headboard last night.
The feet, by then, have found the rhythm, the eyes can now focus, the saliva lined with poison now craves for another cuppa. Sensations having returned to all faculties in turn tingle the ear which feels an instrument, a pencil, entangled in the hair scratching the neck. A scab hurts. Ghosts of undecipherable notes swim in the crinkled scraps that I fish from under the sheets. Riding the morning breeze, lyrics of romantic score float in — tootle-too of a flute reminds me of ‘Noisy Poems‘ by James Reeves.
The notebook comes alive. Looking at the yellow dahlia blooming in the pot I remind myself, ‘there is a lot to live for and celebrate’. I don’t pluck the pretty flower, instead I offer the pot and say, ‘So what if Valentine’s Day is gone – the spring is here, send me a kiss’.
16 February 2024
Ankahi. Unsaid. 
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