Dear friend,
Now I need to write this quickly before the rainlight of Melbourne throws any more tempting shadows onto my page.
I have woken up to my sixty-eighth morning in this windy city, hands thrumming to scrawl these words on paper before the quotidien rabble of my day forces me to give up my wanderings and jump into the shower. The phenomenology of the early days has coalesced into a routine. I have explored enough of the city to now have a favourite haunt to sip rosé and have a bowl of pasta with my book, but not yet enough to trade music for static.
This has been life lately: dancing between the sacredness of getting lost and the profanity of knowing how to get home. Amidst this, I keep dreaming of Septembers back in Delhi. Me praying to the skies to quickly wash away the stickiness of summer to only leave behind the sweetened skin. It feels strange to be crafting dreams and Pinterest boards for the winter months and have my palms turn up sunshine. Was all I needed a quiet town with a beachfront to make me fall in love with the sun? This desire feels neither sacred nor profane; I am plucking new Imaginaries from my Instagram feed and refusing to offer them a body.
But you are here to look at the white bone of my hunger. So, let’s feast. On account of my desperate open-mouthed wonder at the new world, it should be a given that I have been consuming fresh media a lot. First month-and-a-half, I read 1751 pages of romance fiction (Cathy Kelly, What She Wants; Marian Keyes, This Charming Man), horror (Gillian Flynn, Sharp Objects), and non-fiction (Paddy Roe, Gularabulu). Flynn’s novel left the deepest imprint on my mind, its memory still acrid in my throat. The horror took two shots of sunsets and Ms. Swift’s engagement announcement to be washed away, replaced instead with hope so intense it made me want to fling my body off a rock. Imagine finding your soulmate in a man who took inspiration from I Can Do It With A Broken Heart. Ironically enough, I cannot anymore — my eldest daughter aesthetic sits like an ill-fitting corset in the streets of Melbourne’s cardigans, but I cannot just yet take it off.
Amidst this bokeh, The Summer I Turned Pretty cut through like the moon. I only tuned into the show in season iii, and, like all my obsessions, fully gave myself up to being teased and edged towards (finally!) (Yet, not quite) its climax. What is there to not love about this elder brother, responsible doctor, crushed keening desperate dream from Belly’s childhood? Even moreso than the show, I enjoyed the collective communion of Wednesdays, the dissection through Saturday, and the fantasising till Monday. Some bites I relished more than others:
the alcott by penandverse [16k+, complete] / Palo Alto by Xanisis [6k+, complete] / if you ever think you got it wrong by moonsblue [19k+, complete] / la vie en rose by judethethird [1k+, complete] / But Daddy, I Love Him by cheersdarling123 [82k+, complete] / A Different Kind of Summer by TesaMadd [64k+, complete] / from the window, it’s not a bad show by holmeschapel [5k+, complete] / once in twenty lifetimes by Anonymous [3k+, complete] / Burning Red by Anonymous [70k+, complete] / takes miles, takes years by littleghost [6k+, complete] / this (& many other) fan edits from issue-ii: Desiring Bollywood contributor, Shubhangi Singh
Alas, no song of yearning in my language is complete without a reference to the ravages of cricket. India W beat Australia W by a record-run margin, handing India its first win at home against Australia since 2007. Unfortunately still finding my way across the streets of grief post Virat Kohli’s retirement from Test cricket, I cannot be deigned to tune into every single match that India plays, and therefore missed this historic innings. But, the dear man comes back to play in Blue in a month and, in anticipation, all my fruits have started being traded for glasses of wine. And so, here are some more of my favourite darlings from the month, half-longing, half-song:
Gracie Abrams, I miss you, I’m sorry / Shankar Mahadevan, Mitwa / The Beatles, Nowhere Man / Phoebe Bridgers, Scott Street / Taylor Swift, Clara Bow / B Praak, Mera Yaar / Taylor Swift, right where you left me / Farida Khanum, Aaj Jane Ki Zid Na Karo // in april, london is not blue by sanjana sheth / discomfort is the price you pay for a fulfilling life by Jacqueline / 30 Ways to End Your Night Without Your Phone by Nancy Yin / Love as acceptance by Harigovind S
Kill them, as you please.
Yours,
Anushka
In the TINY LETTERS, we cut down the fabled gods of objectivity. Here, there’s no rationality; only the rhythm of the music, & the body in motion. We would love to dance with you.