The whole pantry of cancer trade

A Shared Slice

- RENÉE RANCHAN

It's definitely four days a week when I make it home between 7:30 and 8-ish, and then begins the next marathon—this race is so yawningly boring to get into, and at this point, I positively cannot afford to doze off, especially after caffeinating myself. Quite akin to feeling hungover, over after guzzling down a double dose of super strong coffee in a straight line, and then believing a short 10-minute break would bring about a surge of energy. You've caffeinated yourself as for being on your toes, wide awake and thoroughly alert to run around. Yes, it is by 10:15 when dinner is done with, the remaining dishes from the serving bowls, transferred into small containers, stacked in the fridge, and the kitchen's counter-top readied with the jars of sugar, chai patti, tea cups and the saucepan for making the morning cuppa. That is when I finally find my way into my jammies, feet finally eased into snuggly slippers, making a mad dash to my bed with the many neck-easing pillows—an indulgence that has stayed, guilt-free, with me for decades now.

Yes, my hand cradling the remote, ready to continue with one of the Netflix series I was watching with an engrossment, that usually makes me quite forget that tomorrow was not a holiday but another work day. I am rather capable, despite eyes smarting with sleep, of binging three or four episodes in one go. The point I am trying to make, after this characteristic convoluting, is that fortunately so, this is the time which is my very own, even if I have to grab it, something like, no matter how, boarding the last bus to make it on time to meet the love of your life.