Hang Your Head Tom Dooley..

Hang your head Tom Dooley, Hang your head and cry,
Killed poor Laura Foster, And you know you’re bound to die…

Running through my head like an endless refrain – it’s stuck there and won’t go away. But then I’m not doing anything to make it go away – music inside my head lightens my mood, brushes away those dark clouds of dourness, wipes that scowl away, brings back the light in eyes that were reflecting a boiling cauldron of emotions a few hours ago. So I continue to hum at the back of mind, this classic by The Kingston Trio…

Peeled my eyes open this morning – something that’s been happening a lot lately, since I’ve been sleeping late, after having spent hours curled up in my razai devouring some book or the other and then spending at least half-an-hour, if not more, tossing around in bed trying to fall asleep. But the thoughts don’t let me – sometimes I’m just mulling over what I’ve just read; sometimes I’m composing something in my mind; sometimes I’m wondering where I will be next year – is it where I want to be or will I end up somewhere else,; sometimes I’m trying to shut the Pandora’s Box of emotions that I wish were filtered and subdued, wishing I could let them stream out unbridled, but knowing that would mess things up real bad and I don’t want that to happen…

So I sleep late and there is no reason to wake up early – I definitely don’t want the day to stretch endlessly in front of me, late nights don’t call for early mornings – so I wake up leisurely when Apollo has already made it’s way half-way up, when the birds have stopped twittering in delight over a new day, when the early morning activities in the kitchen have died away…I groggily force one eye-lid apart, peer like a blind owl at my bed-side clock that informs me it’s 8.30 a.m and I wait for Schnapps to come bounding into my room to inform me that I’m the only one still in bed. A jab with his wet, rather cold nose and I lazily poke one leg out of the razai…it’s a brand new day, let’s get out of bed and get those crooked teeth brushed and shiny. Yawn! Putting Schnapps on my cupboard so he can bark at the team of sweepers busy sprucing up the avenue that leads up to the bungalows beyond the buildings, I reach for my glasses, smile as the world clears up, and make my way to the breakfast table – some toast with eggs/jam/tomatoes (I’m not particular), some fruit and coffee, a jostle over the newspaper with my father who’s intent on reading every tiny bit of news in there before he leaves for his office in the ‘dongar’ and I’m set for the day.

But this morning it all went out of kilter – an enquiry from my mother regarding which tickets to ask my brother to book for a movie I’m not particularly (make that, not at all) keen on seeing led to a rather nasty show-down between my brother and me. Barely awake, I was breathing down fumes and shooting daggers at him with my eyes – argh I hate it when men put on this “I’m so busy, you oughtta be glad I’m running this errand for you” act. Makes me want to throw something at them – something crystal, something that would make a nice loud crash as it hits that thick skull! Itched to tell him he can take those tickets and go to hell for all I care, it’s not me who wants to watch the latest addition to sob-love-stories! Ick – I hate it even more when I have to swallow my anger to ensure the smiles stay intact on other’s faces!!!

Hang your head Tom Dooley, Hang your head and cry,
Killed poor Laura Foster, And you know you’re bound to die…

Currently:-

• Reading William Dalrymple’s mammoth work, White Moghuls, after having finished The Handmaid’s Tale. (Find my review of this classic by Margaret Atwood at Literary Mosaic)
• Itching to head to Bombay and vent this hoarded up energy by walking down Marine Drive, breathing in that salty air & letting the wind play with my hair for a change, sharing my woes with one of my bosom buddies, and then over to Causeway - Mondegar for supper or mayhaps to Oxford (I haven’t been there in aeons) for a tall glass of iced tea and a nice Turkish salad. Hmm…