Of Christie, cottages and old world charm

Monsoons have a way of reminding me of England. Not the one I visited a couple of years ago, but the one from my childhood. Seen only through the eyes of the mind. Entire country sides conjured out of a typical Christie whodunnit. Idyllic villages and quaint little cottages of all my favourite classics. I can no longer see gloom writ large on grey skies. I am lost in the faint whiff of muffins, freshly baked. In the soft words carried by the wind of ladies gossiping, trading recipes and preaching self-care. In the high-pitched, joyous shrieks of children running to catch up with the very paper boats they set afloat.

Yes, I remember the rolling meadows and quite countryside of old England. I also remember the happy days of my own childhood. And, I’m a happy camper lost in an old world charm. Oblivious, yes. But better off.

So when I spot the first drizzle gently falling on my window sill, I no longer stare at my laptop screen with a frown of consternation. Nor am I found toggling between calls and IMs on my phone or mindlessly, infinitely scrolling through social media watching other people live their lives. No, at such times I take break from life, look out at the trees singing in rejoice and wonder about the happiness that just is.

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