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Bliss is having a mirchi ka pakora — carry-home leftovers after a morning party at a yoga centre — with adrak ki chai on the terrace and sharing it with my Lhasa Apso.

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Amrinder Bajaj

Bliss is having a mirchi ka pakora — carry-home leftovers after a morning party at a yoga centre — with adrak ki chai on the terrace and sharing it with my Lhasa Apso. Bliss is the rustle of jamun leaves being tickled by the breeze; the song of the bulbuls and mynahs in it branches. Bliss is watching the sunrays filter through, dappling the ground with moving shadows. Beady-eyed crows with black jackets and grey vests, pigeons with pink feet and a burst of fluorescent colours on their neck drink fearlessly from the water bowl I keep for them. They have got used to this human animal who sits on the terrace tapping the keys of a laptop, for they know she means no harm. I am honoured by their trust.  

Bliss is this hard-earned me-time after days of hard labour in the operating theatre, where I get my thrills. The adrenalin rush followed by a peaceful calm is a win-win balance. 

The greenery of the jamun tree extends to the lawn, the neem, mulberry and palms that grow across the narrow road in the park beyond. I am lucky enough to live in this patch of greenery in smog-polluted Delhi. 

My home is not as swanky as that of my neighbours’. It makes no difference. They have an impressive façade, mine has history and character. The ageing walls have fine cracks, like the fine wrinkles on my skin, each of which has a story to tell — of emotions felt, lives lived. 

Once this house rang with laughter of young children, was full of relatives from the hills during harsh winters, and there was ‘happy’ mayhem. School, college, weddings, births, deaths, it has seen all and has aged with me. One by one, all have left; the children to live lives of their own, and the husband for his heavenly abode. I am all that remains in this relic but there is no other place I would like to be. 

Greenery as far as the eyes can see, chirping birds, talking trees, nuzzling dog, books, the companionship of soothing solitude — all so blissful. An intense antipathy for self-pity contributes majorly to the experience. 

Life is what we make it. Live. Make it worth living.

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