Saturday, April 02, 2005


I’ve realised that I’m even more possessive than I thought. Note emphasis, even more than I thought.
I can feel possessive about anything at all – concepts, spaces, places, my reading nooks; notional spaces/places… the list stretching to but not limited to the TV remote, my water bottle, pens, pencils and other stationery (I’m not possessive about people, ain’t that odd?). But of the other, I want control over anything I see in my mind’s eye as MINE. Like, the KITCHEN when my mother is away.

Ok this is what’s bothering me now. Mum left me in charge, alright? IN CHARGE, get? So the kitchen for this week is mine, ok? I decide what will be cooked, in what order, what will be disposed of and so on. Mum has left detailed instructions of how to make Idli hittu and I am all excited about trying it. I have a secret feeling mine will turn out petal soft. But not yet. Mater will be back next week, so I want her to eat them as well, plus idlis are damn convenient when people are due to arrive from grimy trains. So I’ll start the process, say Tuesday, so she can have it Thursday morning for breakfast. Beautiful.

Saturday – father is home. Wakes up annoyingly early. Unbeknownst to me, has soaked double the quantity of urad dal needed for approximately four weddings. Has brought out mixie and made the hittu. Has put back in the fridge the dose hittu I’d put out for breakfast, instead has taken out chapati dough (meant for lunch!) and eaten that for breakfast. Has also used up boiled potatoes in fridge to make curry for which I had lovely lovely plans. Has also gone to trouble of making rice, cabbage curry and rasam. (Aww, I hear you say, that is so sweet... hmph).

I wake up, discover intrusion by mere-male-and-lowly-serf and do a bit of brat-like yelling. He’s mystified, poor thing, previous experience having taught him that industry was always to be rewarded. I get that, but I’m still miffed.

A little later
It belatedly occurs to me that the word isn't possessive so much as territorial. But what with ideals of never rebreathing breaths, I'll leave it as it is. After all, these were belaboured angry gusts.

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