Slow Living

I scroll through instagram and visit a profile I love. Slow living, says the description. The feed is filled with pictures of sourdough baking, gardening, homemade kimchi and kombucha. 

I dream of slow living. Of waking up and walking down the stairs, one step at a time, savoring the feeling of the dark brown wood against my bare feet. Of drawing back my printed yellow and red curtains acquired from Fab India, the soft cloth cool against my skin; the curtains that are often mistaken to be made from an old sari. Of gazing fondly at my herbs, as the sunlight seeps in through the balcony window.

I walk towards the kettle, fill it up and wait for my water to boil. I squeeze some lemon into my teacup, adding fresh mint, cinnamon, turmeric and black pepper. Filling it to the brim with my boiled water, I take in the gentle aroma of my hot herbal mix; my one solace each morning and a truly delicious concoction. 

I make my way to the front door, opening it and walking into more sunlight, each ray bouncing off my dark brown skin. Sipping my drink, I sit with my plants. With my hibiscus and aloe vera, my mint and parsley, my spinach, my tomatoes. I spend my mornings gardening, my afternoons fermenting, my nights writing.

I understand the privilege of dreaming of this lifestyle, of even thinking of it as a possibility. But if it is a possibility, oh the wonders of it. If it is. 

Bob the Lizard

The sharp and slender green tail of the house lizard disappeared under the white and pink bed frame, once again escaping their broomstick. It was day ten of dorm life, and Shruti and Prerana had spent the last hour trying to chase the slippery reptile out of their tiny dorm room. After many minutes of deliberation and discussion, they brought out their green-bristled broomstick, a recent and cheap $5 purchase from FairPrice. They had not anticipated using this for anything other than cleaning. The plan was to slowly nudge the lizard out with the broomstick. It felt like a solid plan. How hard could it be anyway? 

Hall 15 of Nanyang Technological University, Singapore was very pink (in color) and very green (in plant and lizard life). The building was made alive with these reptiles. They were constantly darting across the walls, mostly active at night, their scaly skin glistening against the bright beams of nearby street lights. 

It was 10pm that Tuesday night when the lizard had escaped their clutches for the eighth time. They were exhausted and on the brink of giving up. But fear truly outweighed exhaustion and the thought of falling asleep with a lizard in the room was almost too horrifying to fathom. Shruti thought about how it might creep into her bed at night, finding its way into her hair, or worse, into her ears or mouth. Though she’d grown up with house lizards in India, the ones in Singapore seemed a little more adamant, and a little less scared of humans. The compact dorm space didn’t help and made her feel like the lizard was too close for comfort.

They decided to take a break. Fully alert, they went back to doing some school work, all the while keeping their eyes peeled for a green flicker against the light brown plywood floor. Shruti had the broomstick plopped against her desk, within arms’ reach. She was only half focused on her Mechanics of Materials homework, her eyes glazing over the vector calculations.

In less than ten minutes, a sudden motion caught her eye. She jerked up and beckoned Prerana. She felt like she was going into battle, sleeves rolled up, broomstick in hand. They were going to banish the creepy little critter this time. This was serious business.

Or not. Now it was almost midnight and resignation was upon them. “I think we should name him Bob.” said Prerana, as she plopped onto her bed. Shruti looked up. “So we’re keeping him?” And so it was decided. They’d live with Bob, he’d be their friend. And they’d overcome their fears. And everyone would be happy(-ish) under the illusion that Bob was harmless, would not creep up on them, and would generally just live in harmony with them in Hall 15, Block 72, Room 1503. 

Writing Prompt - Write a story that begins with someone's popsicle melting

The orange ice from her popsicle dripped quickly into the hot sand as Shruti tried to save it. The scorching 40C heat got the better of her though. Before she knew it, there was more sticky, sugary water sliding down her arm and to her elbow, eventually falling to the ground and forming tiny damp dents in the soft sand she was sitting on. Almost seconds later, all that remained of the delicious purchase was the light brown wooden stick.

Shruti quickly looked at her grandma, who had already required a lot of coaxing before agreeing to buy her the popsicle. She was sitting grimly next to Shruti, sand nestled in the folds of her green sari. Her grandma was a curious creature, if one could dare use that phrase on this woman. When it came to ice cream (amongst other things), she was quite the authoritarian. She only allowed Shruti to purchase ice cream from a Kwality Walls ice cream cart. The beach had many brands of ice cream- Kwality, Amul, Lazza, and a couple others that Shruti’s eyes always glazed over. Perhaps it was the quality in Kwality, Shruti thought to herself smiling, that made it more appealing to her grandma. The safer sounding option in the vast sea of questionable ice-cream carts that lined themselves up each evening at Marina Beach. 

Shruti heard the jingling bells of another Kwality Walls cart passing by, and she jumped at the opportunity. “Ammamma, my ice-cream melted, can I please get another one?” Being simple and straightforward was the best way to deal with her grandma. She knew this after spending the past year under her care, and having to ask (and sometimes beg) for many things. Her grandma’s eyes narrowed, her lips beginning to shape into a no . “The orange one is only five rupees, it’s the cheapest one they have!” Shruti quickly added. She hoped the money justification would do the trick - the solid pitch that she was buying the most inexpensive ice cream, and hence the ice cream of best value, had to help. 

Her grandma quickly resigned. Perhaps it was the scorching heat and the desire to get back into the air-conditioned car, or perhaps the pressure of the ice cream seller who had overheard the exchange and had stopped to wait for the final decision. Her grandma unbuttoned her brown Rexine purse and pulled out a thick five-rupee coin. Shruti eagerly grabbed it and hopped over to the ice cream cart. This time, she’d be wiser and eat it as soon as it was unwrapped.