There’s a plant in my living room now with indigo blossoms. Its quite curious actually. Every morning I will water it and go about my own business. It sits there. The blossoms faced towards the open balcony and the summer sun. I sit there, working as I type along. And once in a while I spot the blossoms out of my field of vision. Indigo-purple flowers. From here, they look fake. They look too realistic to be real. As I said, fake. And I pull my attention back from the flowers to my keyboard. Type Type Type.

Next morning. I wake up. The blossoms are still facing the balcony. Pert and lively, yet on some primal level, they appear to be made out of velvet. The kind that only factories in Indonesia can make. Soft, rubbery and Indigo. So very indigo! I water it, perch it on its regular counter and get back to work. I am cooking now. In my little kitchen. Cereal boxes abound, pending dishes abound. And I start cooking. I hate it when onions caramlize too much. My stove hates it too. It starts producing obnoxious fumes. My roommates don’t agree. I can’t believe they cant smell them. I mean the fumes are obnoxious and pungent. How can anyone not smell them. The indigo blossoms can. They turn their head away once I start cooking. I noticed that once, or twice. But maybe not. It might just be that the indigo is so beautiful. The texture…

Next Day. I water the plant. Its cloudy outside. Its 3 pm and it feels like 6 already. A long day. A sun-less day. The plant moves closer to the edge of the table. Seeking sunlight. I slightly nudge it back. I don’t want it to fall. I push it back. But it must be hungry, coz it moves again. Right at the edge. Hmm, poor blossoms. They wilt with hunger. Damn the rains. The day drags on. I pull up my plate. Warm my rice. Am about to eat when, the plant turns around. The blossoms staring at me. I look at it. It stares as it shifts away from the edge of the table in my direction. Inches closer, the leaves casting huge shadows on my plate. NO! I empty the plate in the thrash can. Damn, indigo blossoms!

Recently, my roommates have started whispering. It annoys me. They seem to hate the plant. I don’t blame them. Its such a murky weather outside that the plant becomes inhospitable, snappy, ill-tempered. It just starts yelling out if someone’s cooking. Maybe it is bothered with the caramelized onions. I don’t know. I don’t talk to it anymore. I used to. It was good to have someone to talk to. The roommates only whisper amongst themselves. And I hate to whisper. I don’t. Whenever they start I just go inside away from them. Pretty soon I started talking to the blossoms. They are smart. Intelligent and challenging. I finally had someone to discuss things with. Get opinion on my writing. They had good feedback. But not anymore. I don’t like their feedback. It makes me feel dumb. They are always so right. I don’t want that. I don’t talk to them anymore. But when I write, I see them nodding in disagreement. I just ignore them. Its easier that way.