Quiet days

Ponderings on a random, lazy morning.

I am woken up mid-dream by the familiar noise of the room door opening. It’s my son, asking me if he can have leftover pizza for breakfast. I say yes, mostly because I’m grateful that he is still at an age where he needs my approval for such things, and I don’t want to discourage the habit by always saying no. Besides, it’s the weekend. What are weekends for if not leftover pizza for breakfast?

I close my eyes again to try and find closure to my dream, but it’s too far from reach already. It’s 9 am, although the blackout curtains ensure it stays 6 am for the rest of the morning. The quiet hum of the air conditioning is a reminder that the days are already getting warmer. I’m annoyed; I wanted this desert winter to last longer. The duvet I had taken out just over a month ago is already back in storage. I’m not the type to keep the duvet on for the aesthetics. Our bed may not look beautiful, but it is what I think of first when I think of home.

My daughter’s long, bony feet poke my sides, looking to bury themselves in the warmth of my body. My body is the opposite of hers. I’m reminded of an Instagram reel I watched yesterday, a reenactment of how Lankan women talk about other women’s bodies. It reminded me of how my mother would do this, a practice that I found amusing as a child but hugely uncomfortable as an adult. My bigger-than-usual reflection in the mirror speaks back to me in my mother’s voice. The person who marries her deserves a prize. I know my husband bears the brunt of this. Not of the heavier me, but of this voice in my head, regardless of my size. I tell my daughter she’s beautiful, even while I teach her how to conceal the dry skin she inherited from me. It’s not a bad thing, I say. We just need to learn to manage it.

I write as my son plays Gran Turismo on the Playstation. He puts on his headphones so that the steady whirr of the cars racing on the screen doesn’t disturb me. When my husband joins him, they try to connect two sets of headphones, and I tell them not to worry. The noise only gets to me more when I’m not doing anything, when it’s the sound of life going on without me.

Driving through the roads of Doha on a weekend night, I’m struck by the quiet. Even with the windows down, the sound of our own vehicle would drown out whatever little noise the city emitted. I think of Colombo and its sounds; the orchestra of varied horns, music blaring from streetside stalls, beggars tapping on your window at the traffic lights, raindrops. Do I miss the noise as much as I used to? Or am I starting to appreciate the lack of it?

It’s not a bad thing.

We just need to learn to manage it.