the middle path

It’s cold and you put your hands around me. I brush it away. And wrap my arms around myself. You shrug but say nothing. I can see the wistful look in your eyes. I pretend to not care. In between hours divided for others and other things, this is some time we have together. But am not ready to be happy.
I can be content with more of this. Even nothing of this.
Its this midway that hurts.

!

There’s pleasure in waiting
It’s like licking an ice cream cone
Bottoms first.

clouded conversations

Its will be hard on him. But he has to know. After 7 years of living together I owe it to him.

She played with the sands around her as she sat leaning her back on to him. He was humming a song. She knew she had heard it somewhere. But couldn’t place the song nor could she remember the lyrics.

It was he who had pushed her into setting up her own business after her miscarriage. He had wanted her to take her mind off things that bothered her. And she was thankful for that. And she loved what she was doing. Interior designing had always been her passion. And making houses feel like homes gave her a great sense of accomplishment. Hers was a small business. Just 4 years old. A baby when compared to most other giant designing houses. But she did have a nice small set of clients. It was that He had come into her one roomed office and wanted her to do up his studio apartment.

How would he take it? Leave me probably? I guess it’s best for the both of us. Why would he want to live with someone who had almost betrayed him?

Anu?

She was startled at the sound of his voice.

I think am falling in love...

She couldn’t believe it

I...

Let me complete Anu...

I don’t know if you’ve felt this before. But I have. A feeling that life is dull, boring and aimless?

He continued not waiting for her answer.

She swallowed and waited with bated breath.

Well I have. Many times. Especially after what happened to us over four years ago. And every time I tried to pick myself up, I found that I couldn’t. But then there was this face that always egged me on, convinced me that everything was alright. And that life is indeed wonderful.

I wonder how we both can feel the same way and yet have been living under the same roof. Atleast now I don’t have to be guilty about breaking his heart. Probably he wants a way out of this too.

She thought about Him unapologetically, without a trace of guilt, for the first time since she’d fallen in love with Him.

I want to tell you anu, that you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met...inside and out. Am so glad you are mine. Am so happy you are with me. Am so lucky to have someone like you...to fall in love with again and again...every single day...


She sat there by him. Not knowing what to say. The sky melted into black. The song that he hummed made their words clear to her

faces that tell

Its not that I've never felt it before. Its perhaps that I've never thought about it before. Or perhaps I've thought about it before but not really sat down and pondered about it. Haven't you felt that there are faces that tell a story by themselves? Stories maybe with no titles, beginning middle and end, no climax or an anti-climax, but still stories?

I've always seen him near the serving table. A dirty off-red apron around him, his eyes gently looking around to see what each person who walks by the table has loaded on to a plate. sometimes, when I stop by for an extra helping of something, or when I go back to get it, I see his face light up, I see his eagerness to serve, and I wish my tummy would be better equipped to feel hungry all over gain, just to see him smile. His smile is never different from the ones my ammumma gives me when I tell her that the aviyal that she has made for me is remarkably wonderful, or when I just simply wipe my plate clean, and burp unapologetically, after having enjoyed a full meal. Its then that stories seem to swim above their heads. I know that these people enjoy cooking, but more than just the act of cooking, they love seeing people enjoy it.It is appreciation for them when they see wiped clean plates, and hear burps. I wonder at why burps are so looked down upon, that's perhaps your tummy telling you that it is happy with what you have fed it today. And I think you have the right to hear it.

There are faces that tell you what they are. I had a teacher who could have been nothing but a very kind and lovely teacher, one look at her would convince you of the same. There are painters who just look like painters, people who look like their names- Renukas you know will just be Renukas, Varuns who look like Varuns, Georges who could have not been anything else but George, women who have motherhood written on their faces, shopkeepers who you know will give sweets free to children...how many such faces, how many more stories...

I wonder if you have ever felt this way. I wonder what story my face tells...