Abhignya savours a rare off-day’s simple joys—coffee, birds, poetry—on Different Truths.com, dreaming of lazy birding and literary freedom.
AI Summary:
- The writer cherishes an obligation-free day with coffee, birdwatching a purple sunbird, and Shelley’s poignant verse.
- Contrasts office rush with personal dreams of gardening, journaling, and full-time writing amid Bakhtin and Sartre lessons.
- Yearns for time to craft a feminist childhood novel, pondering Hemingway’s “bleed” for creative bliss.
It is a rare (non)event when there comes a day with no social or professional obligation awaiting one; I make the most of it when life treats me with an off day. I wake up to no alarms, having quietly drifted upon the gay cloud of precious morning delirium until I fancy it is time; my blanket a cosy world of warmth and peace.
I leisurely walk to the kitchen and make myself a cup of hot coffee. I breathe the mid-morning air (freshly stale) as I step out to collect the paper. Are there any birds I spot in the neighbourhood? I remember, on my way to work the day before, I chanced upon a lone, tiny, purple sunbird in a white hibiscus shrub.
Dreamy! It just stood/sat there amidst the stark lack of colour in its shiny dark exuberance. For a fraction of a second, I’d felt completely taken by its beauty. I’d wished then I could indulge in lazy birding, a term I’d learnt was popular for the practice of birdwatching in mundane spaces over a period of time. For a garden of my own (I’d have a huge mango tree that would bear fruit in the summer, a modest water lily pond to commemorate Monet, a swing, a host of vibrant marigolds – orange in the bright grass; birds and bees would visit fruits and flowers soaked in the happy light of the open).
The purple sunbird had encouraged, with its other-worldly charm, taking time off work and hunting for Shelley online.
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that
tell of the saddest thought
Reading the news occupies me for a stretch of time as I sip on my drink. I look at the photographs in the paper and notice the patterns of colour and style. The slow upward spiral of the coffee vapour is a sight I love to watch, and I take a moment or two to admire it. The rest of the day is spent reading, journaling and tending to plants; the gentle, meditative sway of an off day is precious.
I write of these simple joys while at work as I hear the printer whir without respite. Colleagues, friends amongst them, move about in a rush, getting work done. No one pauses, looks up, or is ever at leisure. They are different people when outside of the office. They ask for love, food, and health; they laugh; they’re honest. One of them had gently held my cold hand through a dizzy spell, and another had promptly fetched me a sugary drink.
My head aches because I have taught Bakhtin (chronotope, heteroglossia) and Sartre (Huis Clo) for a few hours and now need a cup of tea before I correct exam papers. I think of the broader idea of literature; I think of being a “full-time writer” – would I be happier?
Hemingway claimed that there was nothing to writing but that one sat by a typewriter and bled. How would I enjoy that? I could finally write (or begin to write) the novel I’d always wanted to publish, one that captured the essence of my childhood through the lens of feminist theory. I’d write of the people I grew up with and the interior life I led.
There was so much to accomplish, and time always already seemed elusive. If only I could get an off day, I’d begin to change the world.
Picture design by Anumita Roy
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