Reading · The General in her Labyrinth

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This flash essay is part of a collaborative, constrained-writing challenge undertaken by some members of the Bangalore Substack Writers Group.
This month, we used the prompt, ‘What’s keeping you afloat in a turbulent world?’
At the bottom of this snippet, you’ll find links to other essays by fellow writers.

Image credit: Siddarth RG, https://siddarthrg.substack.com/

This is what is keeping me afloat in the times we live, in no particular order-

Mallige hoovu. Abundant spirals in the roadside market seeping into my pores as I walk by.

Jokes. What trees do cars grow on? Factories. (courtesy Baby K)

Books. Karnad. Saint-Exupery. Ghosh. (Anuradha) Roy.

Muscatel Tea.

Baring my soul to my keeper of conscience, over endless cups of muscatel.

Gossip. Harmless gossip. (Yes, it exists!).

Book Club. Two hours of friends (not acquaintances) holding each other up, ol’ fashioned chin wag about everything under the sun.

Baby K and Kutty R bursting into uncontrolled laughter when I tell them our friend Kishor’s surname is Bhat.

A good night’s sleep on freshly laundered sun-dried sheets.

Trees. Banyans with prop roots. Mango trees bedecked with young leaves. Overarching rain trees. Ms. Honge in Cubbon park. Tree canopy from Bangalore Hospital to Southend Circle. Fiery Gulmohar.

Cake.

Poetry. Mary Oliver. Michael Ondaatje. Caitlyn Siehl. Caitlin Seida. Rumi.

My mother. Her uncontrolled laughter (maybe Baby K and Kutty R get this from her?) Her love for the written word and writing. (maybe Baby K and Kutty R get this also from her?)

A perfect sunset.

The memory of my father-in-law’s drawl describing why sunsets occur. Or his loud voice singing along to Harry Belafonte and Neil Diamond.

Music.

The memory of V laughing so hard at some joke that ‘broke’ him, that the vein on his forehead would jump out angrily.

Silliness. Fart sounds, funny faces and raspberries on stomachs.

Therapy.

Dancing to Mukkabala or Humma Humma, with complete abandon while being watched by two lil’ munchkins consumed by glee.

Newspaper obituaries. Lives gone by, lives lived, lives remembered.

Sunflowers.

Honest people making an honest living.

The moon staying in her corner of the sky.

People working for something larger than themselves, helping make other people’s lives better.

Playing Codenames.

An idealistic professional sharing her hopes for the future without second guessing herself.

Hope. Hope is not a Sewer Rat, Caitlin, It could just be water on a hot thirsty day.

Hope is not a Bird, Emily by Caitlin Seida

Chaotic Sunday family lunches. One screaming over the other to be heard. Children slinking away with fingers plugged into their ears for some ‘alone’ time from the over-exuberant adults trying to shoot the ‘moon’ in Hearts.

Quintumble, every morning.

Physical exercise.

An unexpected evening breeze.

A good cry. Heart wrenching wails, snot and tears et al.

The realization that all of these are on an ‘as-is-where-is’ basis, in this unpredictable world. So, soak it in.

It ends or it doesn’t. We will not Perish.