Indira Ganesan, Dreamflower, 2013

Sleeplessness comes when you least expect it, and yet, perhaps you consciously court it.  Why else eat popcorn laced with your aunt’s special Sesame-cumin-dal powder, followed by spoonfuls of hazelnut chocolate? What matter it isn’t Nutella but organic, as is the popcorn and powder? Sunday before Monday, and you eat, in full knowledge, yet are still surprised to find it is half-past twelve, and in four hours –less, really–the alarm will go off, and you must get in a car and drive.  You have disturbed the cats who were quietly slumbering as you tossed in bed to get comfortable, finally getting up to microwave a  mug full of milk with saffron and honey, leading them to foolheartedly follow you to the kitchen, thinking they will be fed.  You wonder why on earth isn’t the milk working, and you read an article about yet another person who has given up dairy, knowing you should not reach for the computer, but you really do want to know when the nasturtiums will bloom at the Gardner.  It will be in April, but as long as you are there, in cyberspace, why not check what is happening at the MFA, the ICA, only you type in CIA-Boston, and get the wrong information, leading you to wonder if you are now on a list.  You spent the morning having brunch with a table of interesting, vibrant women, and you came home to get caught up on work.  You finished reading an article on Arundhati Roy, which leaves you feeling exhilarated and happy to be involved in novels, although you suspect she would disapprove of your work, although you hope she and a host of other South Asian writers, as well as the rest of the world, frankly, approve and exclaim over everything thing you do, for is that not why you secretly write to begin with? You drift off to sleep, having tired out your mind, knowing that the alarm will ring too soon, and of course, without fail, it does.