Journal pt 2:

February, New Books, Cafe and Coffees, Love and Habits.

Feb 13, 2025

10th February, 2025

Sunlight spilled into the room, golden and unhurried, cutting through the half-drawn curtains and pooling softly on the floor. The air was thick with the scent of ripening blossoms, the lingering touch of spring blending seamlessly into the first whispers of summer. There was no sharp chill left of winter, only the gentle embrace of a season in transition. Outside, the trees stood lush with new leaves, their branches swaying lazily in the warm breeze. A few birds chirped, their songs carried through the open window, blending with the hum of the awakening city. I lingered beneath my blankets for a while, the sun tracing lazy patterns across my skin, before finally stretching and stepping into the day.

I took a bath, letting the warm water wash away the last traces of sleep, a habit I have been trying to cultivate—bathing early in the morning instead of later in the day. There's something about the stillness of morning water, the way it seems to reset my thoughts and prepare me for what’s ahead. The warmth wraps around me like a quiet embrace, easing me into wakefulness with a clarity I rarely feel otherwise. It is a small change, but one that already feels like an anchor, grounding me before the day carries me away. As I stepped out, the warmth lingered, wrapping around me like a soft embrace, making the transition into the day feel gentler. I stretched, feeling the slight pull of my muscles as I reached for a glass of water, letting its coolness settle within me. As I made my way to the kitchen, the familiar scent of tea leaves steeping in hot water intertwined with the earthy aroma of the morning, a simple yet grounding comfort. The world outside moved at its own pace, but in this moment, time felt unhurried, wrapped in the gentle embrace of a new day.

February has always carried a certain tenderness. It is a month that moves in slow, measured steps, one that holds a delicate charm. Only a few days past, I had ventured out to a new café with my best friend, a quiet little place with old wooden tables and books stacked in a corner—a tattered edition of Pride and Prejudice rested on a nearby shelf, and fairy lights twinkled softly overhead—the kind of place where time seems to stretch and settle. We talked for hours, savoring our food—a coffee latte and strawberry shakes, avocado toast and falafels. There is something deeply satisfying about discovering a space that feels untouched by the rush of the world, a place where one can exist in the stillness of a moment, accompanied by good company and warm conversation. It is in such small departures from routine that February finds its magic—new places, new pages, the slight shift of air that suggests change is near. As we sat there, the world beyond the café’s windows felt distant, almost unreal, as though we had entered a small, enclosed universe of our own making.

this was sooooooo good, basil cafe & restro, Bhubaneswar, India

This month, as is my ritual, I have gathered new books to keep me company. A quiet joy, this ritual of selecting stories that will carry me through the weeks ahead. The Vegetarian by Han Kang, a haunting and spare novel, has already begun to work its way under my skin, its prose both unsettling and exquisite. Han Kang’s exploration of identity, violence, and desire—rendered in such stark yet lyrical language—lingers with me long after I close the book. It’s no wonder that this novel earned her the Nobel Prize in Literature, its quiet, devastating power resonating deeply with readers around the world. I find myself thinking about how stories like The Vegetarian make us confront the darker recesses of the self—the suppressed, the unspeakable. It’s a book that refuses to offer easy answers, instead demanding that we sit in discomfort, grappling with its haunting stillness. And then there is All the Lovers in the Night by Meiko Kawakami, its solitude echoing something familiar within me. Kawakami’s delicate yet incisive prose captures a kind of loneliness that feels so intimate, it’s almost like looking in a mirror. Books have a way of grounding us while gently carrying us elsewhere, offering a kind of escape that feels like coming home. In recent days, their presence has been a steady companion, filling the silence with something meaningful. The Vegetarian leaves me unsettled in a way I can’t quite shake, its stillness reflective of my own moments of inner pause, while All the Lovers in the Night wraps itself around my thoughts like a familiar echo. These stories sit quietly on my bedside table, not just as books but as small reminders of connection—a bridge between solitude and something greater.

An excerpt from The Vegetarian

And then, of course, there is love. February is its devoted keeper, though my own celebrations of it remain gentle, unassuming. My partner and I do not weave grand gestures into the month, nor do we feel the need for elaborate displays. Instead, we lace it with quiet kindness—chocolates left at the doorstep, a thoughtful message sent in the hush of the afternoon, small remembrances that speak more than extravagance ever could. Love, I have found, is best when it does not demand to be noticed, but rather when it lingers in the corners of ordinary days. Like the way my partner remembers my favorite kind of tea and surprises me with it, or the warmth of a message sent without reason, just to say "I'm thinking of you." It is found in the unspoken understanding between us, in the way we carve out small moments despite the busyness of life. Love does not need grand declarations; it thrives in these quiet, everyday gestures that speak louder than words. In the simple offerings of presence and care, in knowing that, even in silence, one is held in someone else’s thoughts. Love is in the way we remember each other’s small preferences, in the way we check in without needing a reason.

The day unfolded in its usual rhythm, though today was marked by the quiet ache of my body. A lingering fever, the dull weight of period pains—ailments that are not urgent but persistent, pressing against the bones with steady insistence. There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes with such discomfort, not sharp but wearing, like a tide that ebbs and pulls. I tried to focus on my studies, but the words blurred, my thoughts scattered. Some days demand patience with oneself, and so I let go of expectation, allowing myself small pockets of rest where I could find them. A simple lunch, warm and nourishing, and then back to my books, though my mind wandered more than it stayed. The afternoon stretched on in this manner, an ebb and flow between effort and surrender. Between reading, I jotted down thoughts, scribbled poetry, and wrote a few paragraphs for my Substack—small bursts of creativity amid the haze of fatigue.

As the day began its descent into evening, the sky darkened into that familiar winter hush. I found solace in music, letting soft melodies settle against my thoughts like a balm. There is something about February evenings that invite reflection, that call for a slowness we often resist. I leaned into it, the quiet, the ease, the gentle weight of the day as it unwound itself. I allowed myself a moment to simply sit by the window, watching the streetlights flicker on one by one, the world outside moving at its own unhurried pace.

Dinner was unremarkable but comforting, something warm to ease the weariness. Afterward, I followed my nightly routine, letting soft music play in the background as I moved through my skincare, each step a quiet act of care. The scent of lavender lingered in the air as I massaged cream into my skin, a small moment of tenderness in a day that had felt heavy. I sent him a message, a simple exchange to end the day on a note of connection. Then, I curled up with All the Lovers in the Night, allowing the words to pull me into their solitude. Eventually, my attention drifted, and I found myself scrolling through YouTube, the glow of the screen a quiet companion in the dim room. Sleep arrived slowly, my thoughts still wandering between the pages of my book and the lingering warmth of my partner's message. My mind flickered with remnants of the day—soft conversations, the scent of lavender, the weight of weariness. But when sleep finally came, it wrapped around me in quiet surrender, like the gentle embrace of a long-forgotten melody. The day had been slow, but in its own way, it had been enough. And in the gentle hum of night, I let myself believe that tomorrow would bring a little more ease, a little more light.

Love, Mukta<3