She was stuck in a rut due to her over-seemingly unhealthy obsession with tinted lip balms. It was overshadowing every single brain cell of hers.
Without second thought, she wrapped her Nepali scarf around her neck, grabbed her wallet, phone and keys, then swiftly stepped out into the cold winter night, fantasizing about the purchase she was about to make as she made her way to the nearby shop.
Unfortunately, as fate would decide, the shop was not open. She grunted in dismay, furious, fuming, and eventually decided to just walk away. Plop plop plop – sounds of her footsteps in the dark, eyes wildly searching for a substitute. And there it was: she stumbled across a Manchurian restaurant – simple but inviting.
She trampled in with strong but swift footsteps, looked at the Indian lady at the counter – slightly shorter than she is, dusky rose skin, friendly and sincere eyes, high pitched voice.
Still squinting scantily across the menu, she ordered for the vegetarian biryani but eventually changed her mind. She ordered egg fried rice instead.
Definitum – her senses did the trick. On the way to fix her lip balm obsession, a whiff of Chinese wok fryings reminded her of her colorful, bustling, city life – somewhere in distant Kuala Lumpur where Chinatown was bursting with affordable and tasty street food.
And then another flashback. Rewinding to what happened a few minutes just before she changed her order —
A little unsure whether she should get something extra, she squinted her eyes trying to read the menu on the headboard.
“Don’t worry maam, I can help you read if you can’t!”, the Indian lady chirped as she inched closer to her, trying to be helpful.
She was then reminded of her mother, who would do the same thing, squinting her eyes and waving her hands in the air, saying “Sorry I can’t see!” and people would always offer their assistance.
Her sister – another story, but often her partner in crime, was more patient than her in many ways, but sometimes they’d shake their heads in unison, signalling that their mother’s actions were not at all necessary.
She understood her mother’s ways now, and the magnetism of being true to your own plight. It never was a rut to be in. Only when you accept your plight, that’s how one stops being in a rut.
Understanding events in a non-linear way was something that she often thought was crazy and illogical, but now it all made sense.—
Staring at the table in front of her, observing the tropical colors used for the painting. There’s always something with gold-linings in oriental paintings instead of silver ones.
“Should we start saying there’s a gold-lining in every situation instead of silver-lining?” She often got carried away with the origin of phrases or words but her thoughts were interrupted when food was ready for takeaway.