There’s a self-diagnosed schizophrenic semi-Persian kitten in the lunge jumping at unmoving shadows, its tail puffed and its back arched in that comical way cat’s does when they’re scared.

Six plants all lined up military-style in the terrace, one of them a bamboo, another one some bramble, another a yellow leaved something something, and the other three springflowers, half dead, half blossoming. It is still spring.

On the dressing table in the bedroom in a fishbowl two betta fish circle each other hornily, one’s red and named Qwerty, and the other’s blue and aptly named Blue Lagoon.

My wife sleeps in the bed, all worries lost to the world in the face of her deep slumber. It’s been a tiring day what with it being the third day of Ramadan and her having to fry to the samosas, pouring things into concupiscent cups (I could fuck those cups after my twelfth hour of starvation), boiling teawater, and setting the table in the study, the table facing the computer where we often eat and watch things together.

And I’m here, lemon and pepper tang on one side of the computer table, a steaming mug of tea on the other side, a giant bowl of fruit salad in my lap, a less large bowl of dahi boondi in my palm. I am the great balancer of our time, vape in mouth, mobile phone on my thigh, and I am the avatar of Shiva.

Frogs as big as your thumb hopping in the lawn. Over them, hovering in swarms are skeeters, buzzing away idylically, living their best life.

I drink the tea, I drink the tang, I smoke the cigarette, I eat the salad, I scroll my phone, my wife snores, the cat purrs and hisses alternatingly, the fish swim around in circles, the plants sway in the pre-monsoon wind, the air is dense with post-rain humidity, and the street is flooded with rainwater.

This is my ecosystem, this miniature, self-sustaining biosphere of dreams and desires. This quaint doldrum what has stranded my ship in a placid place.

I bought headphones for my PS4.

Life’s lifelike.

God’s in his heaven—
All’s right with the world!