It is one of those evenings. Pavithra clad in her dainty saree waits, as usual, for her husband by the window of her bungalow. And as she hears a bike approaching with a "thud, thud, thud," she quickly gets off the chair, checks to see if the pleats on her saree fall well, adjusts the pallu, and swiftly walks to open the front door.
As she helps him with the groceries he bought on his way back home, her eyes speak the language of her thawing heart and his of a spent soul at work. If there were other people around, they would have said "Touchwood" and a silent prayer for the strength of their unspoken bond.
She has her patchy days at work, he strives too much, they saw an innocent person lie dead, close by, very close by to their home just a few days ago, he had the electricity and phone bills to pay off, she had to transfer money into their joint savings account the first of every month (for their future), the house maid has gone on maternity leave, his parents have gone on a vacation to European grasslands while hers are busy visiting temples across the South of India and Pavithra and her husband had their own individual collection of books waiting to be read along with the several movies she had stacked up.
It doesn't matter.
Like a whiff of air from nowhere meets another, these instances move away from the four walls of the cosy home as the two sit down with a bowl of rich and creamy tomato soup each by the dining table made of solid Burmese wood, sharing their thoughts, laughs, silences, hopes, fears, and pauses over the last few minutes, as usual, of each day.
They don't matter, do they?
As she helps him with the groceries he bought on his way back home, her eyes speak the language of her thawing heart and his of a spent soul at work. If there were other people around, they would have said "Touchwood" and a silent prayer for the strength of their unspoken bond.
She has her patchy days at work, he strives too much, they saw an innocent person lie dead, close by, very close by to their home just a few days ago, he had the electricity and phone bills to pay off, she had to transfer money into their joint savings account the first of every month (for their future), the house maid has gone on maternity leave, his parents have gone on a vacation to European grasslands while hers are busy visiting temples across the South of India and Pavithra and her husband had their own individual collection of books waiting to be read along with the several movies she had stacked up.
It doesn't matter.
Like a whiff of air from nowhere meets another, these instances move away from the four walls of the cosy home as the two sit down with a bowl of rich and creamy tomato soup each by the dining table made of solid Burmese wood, sharing their thoughts, laughs, silences, hopes, fears, and pauses over the last few minutes, as usual, of each day.
They don't matter, do they?
Winter?
ReplyDelete>>>YKW: Yes - At the risk of sounding dramatic/cynical, aren't we living in cold times by default? Trust/security being the facades you never wanted them to be?
ReplyDelete