An Old Habit

I m so used to sleeping with a blanket over my head (My previous house was in a noisy neighbourhood.There was a huge drain at the end of the road; street brawls were a daily affair and the mosquitoes, well, they were ruthless) that I haven’t noticed that my new bedroom is West facing so daylight doesn’t flood in until noon. It took me two weeks to spot the amaltaas tree outside the kitchen window, a gently swaying yellow against pale blue. But my senses are acutely aware of the absence of nightly soundtrack of a clamorous street inside a third floor apartment. And the mosquitoes are a gentle lullaby in my memory.

When I wake up in the middle of the night, I frantically yank out of its entanglement, the blanket that has spiralled around my restless legs, and bury myself under it, toe to head.


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