Musing -13

 10:20 AM

It's a Sunday morning, the morning I wait for right from Monday.

I'm in my room sitting in front of a heat convector .There's no sun today. I stepped out to open the curtains but the fog and cold disuaded me from it. So I returned to my heater. It's really cold in here.

 The music of an old Bollywood classic has filled the room. I have wrapped myself waist down in a warm blanket. I've made sure no curtains are open, to avoid all traces of the 'Harry Potter' weather from entering my space. It feels warm and nice.

I've sat to pen down something, not knowing what precisely, maybe my stream of concious thoughts. But the Bollywood song playing in the background has clouded my mind with pink roses. No, romance is not what we are going to write, not today!

I turn the music off. Peace, is it? No, now I can hear the sound of the heat convector. It's sound has a rhythm. It reminds me of some lesson from my physics class, which I will not delve deeper into for the fear of my readers knowing how much I suck at it. Coming back to the point, there's no silence here, no peace to get creative. 

As I was beginning to ponder upon the scarcity of quiet and peace in our lives, the electricity department decided to show some solidarity. We have a power cut! 

It's cold again. The heat convector is quiet now. Peace, is it? No, now I can hear the voices of children playing in the neighborhood playground. Where do kids find the strength and will to step out in such a weather? I'll never know, I have known earlier, now i will not. 

I bring back my focus on my stream of concious thoughts. I notice that there is no single stream there, it has spread out its distributaries. Maybe we find a delta by the time I finish writing. 

Anyways, it's difficult to chase one single chain of thought. Infact all the chains are entangled and I am highly impatient to disentangle them. 

11:07 AM  

The voices from the playground have died down. It's quite in here. The voices in my head tell me otherwise. 

The power is back. The heat convector is buzzing in its rhythm again. I turn on the music and a beautiful Bollywood classic fills the room, and the voices in my head grow fainter. Maybe I should have written romance.