on rainy mornings

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The rain woke me up today, so so early in the morning, that it could have been any year, any life, I could have been anyone I wanted, not a hint of light, everything still hidden and everything still possible right there from my bed, my cold feet could have descended on any ground, my small hands could have touched any body, my heart could have been broken and then unbroken many times, I could have been the immortal writer of epics, a woman for whom lovers give up their life, I could have been the kindest person on earth this morning, a saint, a goddess, a murderer, a poet, a dictator,  I could have been beautiful

but there is a bottle of vanilla extract in my kitchen – I made it last week– and sometimes in the morning, I like to open it and stand there, alone, for a moment with nothing but its heady alcoholic fragrance.

I woke up as myself. This morning I rejected everything in this world for scent of vanilla in a small Jaipur kitchen.

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