Imbalance

The dictionary defines imbalance its usage with something that creates tension.
I am attempting not to let it.
The story began five years ago, when I went to an art show on my dad's behalf. A very popular artist whose work I had not seen in years. So I walk in to the Oberoi's in Mumbai, and the series was on Bhuddha and most of it sold out. At the far end, on a easel, sat a 5x5' golden hued buddhist monk with eyes cast down, smiling tenderly. The artist told me that this one was not part of the exhibition and was an after thought.
He also told me that it was about someone looking within and happy with what he sees. Perfect.
It was meant for me. On closer look, while the artist, I suspect was trying to distract me, I saw that paint from the eyebrow's deep black had spilled a bit from the artist's hand on to the cheek's fine tones that were gently walking from soft ochre to cream.
He mumbled something along the lines of 'blah blah and I can touch up some bits for you, if you are interested in this piece'. I didn't care. The painting with its flaws further enforced the essence of being happy within, despite the flaws. Perfect. I repeated.
It came home around the time I just heard I was going to be a mother. It stayed with me through those nine months and after. It was placed in the most visible place in our living area, and for my partner and I, it reflected the vibe of our life, relationship and home.
Great so far. Last month, I moved cities, and it too moved with me. Again it is placed on my favorite wall in the new home. Only, I now suspect the rains have decided to see how much I believe in it after all.
Yesterday, I saw moisture taking a toll and fungus all over it...it was smeared with spots in grey as though it had chicken pox. A little something inside me began to sink.
An artist friend came home and said that I must attend to it right away as the spots can get stubborn. So I call the artist, he doesn't remember the work, I mail it to him, he didn't revert.
Today, it was sunny, so I decided to bring it down and give it a little sun. I tried to softly work with a muslin cloth in circular motion and it seemed to be clearing softly. My driver told me, to let it stay in the sun a bit and then I could attempt cleaning it again.
I return to my desk. An hour later, my driver calls me to show how well it has been cleaned.
It had. Now, the spots were not there, except a little greying on the edges. And there is a smudging of the paint on the top right side. And while he pressed hard and cleaned, the frame at the back has lined itself around the frame's border and right in the middle there is now a Plus sign. The frame has let itself be known.
I asked him to hang it back. Perhaps a restorer can fix the painting.

But I know, I will need to restore myself on my own. It is a little smudgy; the frames on which our beliefs hang within us, reveal themselves, even if we are not ready for it.
Will I still like what I see within?
Five years on...in my world, in my relationship, in me; maybe I see a lot more than I asked for..
I still want to look within it all and be happy.
It seems like I do while the painting hangs titled on my wall. Imbalanced, with down cast eyes, smiling tenderly.

Qwitter continues

Alright, it is 10: 30 in the morning. vir has gone to school. time to hit work.
I have popped a gum to avoid the oral fixation of lighting up.

The weather is really nice. It is raining and the paddy field in front seems to waltzing with wind knowing that like me for a while we are away from the humdrum of the city.
In another four days I need to get to Mumbai and in another four months, the rice in these fields will be in a sack at a store in some city as noisy and busy as mine.

I had begun to hate smoking in Mumbai. The idea of enjoying a smoke is to sit on a nice couch, a great cup of coffee and look out of the window at a world made to artistic perfections, or at a friends' with a cup of home-made ginger tea. But of late I have found myself having roadside tea and smoking with laborers with a stinking drain close by. Or with a restless wind that turns the smoke right back at my face and hair no matter how hard I try to gauge the direction of the wind and the conversation.

It has become too unattractive.

Sticking my head out of the window, or staying stuck to the edge of the balcony in Mumbai apartments, or worst yet, to leave your conversation, music and even friends to step outside the club, where they stop you from taking the drink out...ahh how do they expect you to enjoy a cig without your drink. As it is, we are dying, be nice to us at least!

Yeah, so as I was saying it is no fun smoking in the cities now. So I thought to myself...

one sec. call.

argh! a call from mumbai. some water leaking problem in one of my homes. and a cig was lit. and most of it smoked.

Will come back later.

Qwitter

Here I sit, just 17 min before of 19th July, pleading with myself to quit.

I have done it before. So many times before and for such long periods. So I can do it.

Once I heard me tell someone I know I can quit easily, which is why I am taking my time with it..for instance if you asked me to cook a meal I would get to it right away as I have no clue where to begin, but if you told me to craft me a letter I would say... in a bit, because I know I can do it in a jiffy. And she kept quiet. For she has told me many times before that the damage is unfathomable.

I don't know why I do it anymore.

And it is it even a subconscious effort. I am very conscious of every move.

The feeble urge that can be overcome

The mind doing a quick check 'do you need it?'

The heart smiling 'oh come on big deal'

The head says again 'it's your third today and it is still early in the day'

By this time the fingers have elegantly reached for the pack

And with every authority that only a responsible adult can exhibit the lighter is held close to the face and snap!

The first drag is rarely as much fun as it used to be, like in the adv or in the movies as the protagonist draws a nice long drag he inhales all powers of solitude.

Now it is either a complete unawareness of the nicotine as there is enough in the blood anyway or it is a distaste followed by an instant heaviness in the chest...

Diligent morning yoga can do this.

My yoga sir says it is senseless to clean lungs at 6 am and then inhale toxins. How many cig can you smoke is like asking how much poison can I have?

Really?

ya of course! Shit. I know this stuff but it is so hard do believe

I read up a lot online, avoided the pictures, they are scary. The notes were so alarming that a part of me refuses to believe that they are talking about a cig that can be bought without even stepping out of my car, leave alone show proof of age,

Oh the worst of that was when I was in Singapore. My son doesn't know I smoke...anyway, so here I was out for a walk by myself and wanted to buy a pack right then. Found enough money in my pocket and asked for one. I could barely get myself to tell him which brand I wanted for all I could see behind him were masses of the most vulgar photos smeared all over the packs. So I look down and ask for a davidoff. Age proof pease he says. I hadn't carried my wallet.
What I did next was ironic, it made me smile really weird as I pulled out my phone and showed him a picture of my three year old son and me. He gave me the pack.

You see I am old enough to be a mum; committing to bring another life up healthily and happily and therefore I deserve to get a smoke. It just seemed odd, almost wrong at that time.

But in that moment it was much easier to laugh about it and light my cig like old times when I lived in Singapore. For that moment i was 26 again.

It's late now. I must sleep. I don't want to. I never want to smoke.

I want to. I must, I am.