We were discussing my left-handedness yesterday. My mother was telling me about how the extended family had tried hard to shift me to right-handedness. I was a little unnerved on hearing how much they had cared about it, about the stringent measures they had taken to nip it in the bud. They succeeded in making me right-handed enough to function. It waned, as things do, once I was left to my own devices, and now I have relapsed again. It is ironic that as we walk through adulthood, we have to strip away the layers again, to become comfortable with ourselves, to get rid of conditioning, that we have to spend time unlearning what we had to spend time being taught.
I am going home for Christmas. I love Christmas, and family, and family Christmas. I do. I am nervous, though, at the same time. I have found my equilibrium of sorts, and I don’t want to be assaulted by the marriage question again. Then there are many other questions. Christmas is my favorite holiday and I don’t want to spend ten days in a state of helplessness and frustration, trying to evade the same questions again and again.
I hope it rains today. I want to have tea and watch the rain.
I went to a beach yesterday. It was overcast and lovely during the drive. The beach I had intended to go to was inaccessible, so plans were changed. It is convenient to be here, in the middle of many beaches, and there is always another one close by.
It was raining there. And mostly deserted. It reminded me of home. Rain brings me alive, and I was a child waiting eagerly for the first rains of the south-west monsoon again. I was drenched yesterday, but could not bring myself to care. There was a cafe afterwards and some tea.
Then I came back, gardened, and went to buy groceries. I didn’t have an ID on me and they refused to sell me wine. In dire straits, I drove up to the Peninsula, for how could I end a rainy weekend night without wine? There we dined and wined, and then I killed slugs for my friend bravely.