a haibun

the way people leave their beds in the morning can be very telling of what they may be like.

my grandmother sheds her blankets on one side, vertically. the four corners of each perfectly aligned with the other at all times, something i couldn't manage to do if my life depended on it. her bottle of water, eye drops, spectacles, napkin and a handwritten note never move from their place on the side of the bed that touches the wall. none of us know what's written in the note. she doesn't try to keep it a secret, but none of us try to look. i hardly ever see her get out of bed. on most days, i find her settled in the living room on the swinging chair; she doesn't fold blankets and changing bedsheets, we do it for her. 

her son, my father, his blankets usually end up half-separated, and in messy gathers at the foot of the bed. he leaves nothing behind; he takes his glasses with him to the wash basin, and leaves his phone wherever he finds the place, usually atop the microwave. he gets up noiselessly and quickly, and the only reason he makes his bed is because he was probably told to do it. 

i also sleep under two blankets. even in this April Mumbai heat. of course at night, but even in the afternoons. when i get up in the mornings, my square cushion rests on my pillow, and my blankets gather on one side at the bottom. i get up the slowest and quietest, after spending some waking minutes lying down, yawning, looking at the clock right in front of me, and then sitting up and staring out the window. and i always have to be reminded to tidy up the bed.

the way people leave their beds in the morning is very telling of what they may be, like a family.

among other things,

three generations preserved

waking up in peace