A List of Delights

Inspired by Ross Gay's The Book of Delights

1/ 

This unexpected December morning chill in November.

2/

Dancing.

I envy people who can move in the lithe, unselfconscious way I secretly aspire to. I take a while to warm up. It’s the mental warming up which takes time; offloading a fear of judgement, a dread of not looking cool enough, years of religious-cultural baggage. 

In guided meditation, there is an emphasis on the breath and the body. You’re asked to slow down, to listen to your breathing, to pay attention to the act of breathing. O2 in, Co2 out. O2 in, Co2 out.

When you dance, there is a similar invitation to get reacquainted with your body and all its possibilities, its limitations, pain points, muscle memories. And then – to really get into the movement – you’re asked to abandon this awareness and let it go.

To dance is to press pause on life and load-shed. To move is a postscript of gratitude. Your flawed body is here, all magic and sinew and bone. It’s a reminder that you are alive. You have made it this far.

Now dance.

3/

That feeling when children and animals choose you. A small, trusting hand tucked into yours. A head resting on your shoulder. A snooty cat snoozing in your lap. A dog walking into a room full of people and plonking itself beside you.

4/ 

I made Sri Lankan Chinese for lunch recently. Nothing fancy – devilled chicken, pepper rice, a vegetable chopsuey. But it was one of those days where it accidentally fulfilled a food craving we didn't realize we were having because we took our time, relishing the meal. The food inspired the kind of after-meal lingering, laughter and talking around the table that we hadn't had in a while. 

I can't pamper my parents the way I dreamed of when I was younger. My lived experience and the one I envisioned living at this age are poles apart. This is not a good or a bad thing. It's just a thing. My goalposts have shifted, my priorities aren't the same, I have changed. When you’re young, you also have unrealistically optimistic expectations of the milestones to be attained at each age. I am now sceptical if the kind of luxurious pampering I well-meaningly envisioned for my parents is the kind they even enjoy.  Either way, the fancier stuff will have to wait. 

I watched my parents reach out for second, third servings and realized that cooking for them brings me a lot of delight.

Food is a shorthand for love in our family. It is our primary love language. We’re not very good at articulating our feelings, we show it through food. When we are happy, our food bursts with flavour. Or we carve the time to bake snacks for our household and for the people we hold dear.

I recognize that food, family, emotion and self hold differ connotations for many and are complex relationships. For me, this isn’t an overbearing love where you're forced or guilted into eating.

Instead of saying the words, I’m so glad you’re in my life/I love you, we make a biriyani, speckled with fried onions, cashew, twice-fried egg, baked potatoes and roast chicken. That’s the gist of it for us, really. Food as a love language has its limitations and we’re learning to vocalize our thoughts in other ways too. But that’s another story.

It’s been a joy cooking for my parents – old classics they are accustomed to as well as new dishes with unfamiliar ingredients. I have prematurely morphed into a caricature of a benevolent Muslim aunty – the kind who demonstrates affection with food, the kind I was averse to becoming.

It is too soon to say if this auntyness is also a delight. I doubt it. But I will report back.

5/

I was walking home the other night. It had just rained and when I was a few yards away from home, the sudden fragrance of Queen of the night forced me to pause.

This is a layered delight. 

The first delight is the sensory rupture of the heady fragrance – an immediate elevation to the everyday. My reaction to it is always the same: my face involuntarily tilts up as though to better meet the scent and I close my eyes. This scent has followed me since that day. On most nights, the fragrance now fills our small house. I still haven’t seen this plant. I don't remember this happening before. What an unexpected joy.

The other delight is the memory it evokes. It takes me back to my Delhi undergrad years. There was a Queen of the night tree in front of our building and on some nights, its perfume would waft above to our rooftop. Queen of the night always reminds me of a past version of a self, of late-night conversations on a rooftop with people who were – and still are – very dear to me but who have receded to the edges of everyday life as it happens with time and distance. 

6/

Morning dew drops glistening in the sun on a new, slender papaya tree after a night thunderstorm, the December chill in November (see Delight no. 1) still in the air.

The papaya tree is also a delight. In a few months, it's now slightly taller than I am. Its leaves have sprouted from the top of its trunk like a starfished parasol and it has this newness to it and looks bashful and shy compared to the older, weary plant counterparts it co-shares the back garden with. 

It’s the third papaya tree we have planted this year, the only one to survive so far. A young papaya tree after a thunderstorm with dewdrops sparkling on its leaves looks a little like hope.

7/

Listen.

I have no shame in admitting that I am a Batter Licker (another delight! Why does it taste so good?) and a Condensed Milk Tin Licker. Every time I use condensed milk I run my fingers along the inside of the tin to take out the sweet, milky goodness that clings to the sides. Every time, there's a food memory that surfaces. 

We were taken on a school 'trip' to the small Sathosa outlet a few metres up the road from school. I can't remember which grade this was in but we were young enough to be excited about this excursion, barely 500m from school. 

A group of friends wanted to buy something and so a whole bunch of us pooled all our pocket money to buy a... can of condensed milk. We got back to class and realized that we didn't have a tin opener and so we set to work piercing the tin with a pen. Many pens were used. But we finally bored a substantial hole, very happily chugging the condensed milk straight from the can, passing it around in a circle.  The condensed milk tins now come with peelable lids but if you ever need to open a tin in a more adventurous way, just know that a pen and some teamwork works just as well.

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Ps: Ross Gay's The Book of Delights is another book that I revisited a lot this year. For a year, he documents things that delight him and the result is wise, poetic and eminently readable, like everything else he writes.

This list is inspired by this book. It's partly a writing exercise. But it's mostly an exercise in gratitude – this year, I think we could use regular reminders about the things that bring us delight. 

If you feel like leaving a comment, I would love to hear what yours are.