Cold drafts wave in my room through the disposed of curtains I brought from home. The dust in them wafts near me as I turn on the geyser and put on the kettle for a fresh morning brew. Notes of Bergamot from my mother’s perfume which I stole (well almost), notes of honey and grape from the bitter brew in cup, and the fresh baked smell from Naan Khatai I got from a street vendor last night. They make my morning. It is not filled with nostalgia, I do not laze in it thinking of the ideal, but all these smell come together to challenge the most esteemed perfumer in the world, pushing me to celebrate with my new day.
Last night, I cooked for myself. Almost forgot what it felt like cooking for the person I don’t love yet. As the cook top blew a whistle, a simple smell of boiled masoor and mustard oil woke up greeting and satiating the hunger I felt after moving to this city. Almost 2 years after I moved in this city, I had my first full meal where no one criticised.
Around the world, the voices of despair and loneliness reverbs silently stirring up hurricanes that I cannot placate. I offer them my meal.
Diary of an Observer 