Years later, she would pause and think backwards. Till this moment when he had looked right into her. For the first time. His glare was piercing. And very honest. It almost spoke for itself.
Years later, when there would be a creeper of money plant growing from a clay pot on their kitchen wall. Against the morning pale filtered sunlight. She would remember this moment.
Of course the journey would have been decades long by then. A couple such more, short of the end. And she would relentlessly stare at the thoughtless creeper, to listen to their story. Understand, respond. Compassionately sympathize. Dispassionately comment.
There would be boxes of glass bangles. Concealed in corners of her shelves, containing alongwith, the void left behind after all the gold that was given away to prodigal inheritors.
In the many rooms of their ancestral house, would hover the mild soapy fragrance of his crisp shirts..and his disintegrating voice. As if, it sent across ripples in the air before finally finding her. Deep inside the house. Bottling pickles. Year after year. Standing in the sun. Growing batches of flowers in their garden. Not a single winter went blossom-less, in those many decades. Pampering pets, street dogs, homely cats and talking parrots.
Albums of black and white pictures. Of pubescent daughters posing by flowers, and sons with toy guns. And weddings, and numerous birthdays. Anniversaries, gone by. And annual days at schools. Year after year. Every year. Keeping moments. Until now. Until now.
Until that very moment, when she would stare at their kitchen wall. And try to remember, hard, almost like an amnesiac.
Matrimony, they say..
Years later, when there would be a creeper of money plant growing from a clay pot on their kitchen wall. Against the morning pale filtered sunlight. She would remember this moment.
Of course the journey would have been decades long by then. A couple such more, short of the end. And she would relentlessly stare at the thoughtless creeper, to listen to their story. Understand, respond. Compassionately sympathize. Dispassionately comment.
There would be boxes of glass bangles. Concealed in corners of her shelves, containing alongwith, the void left behind after all the gold that was given away to prodigal inheritors.
In the many rooms of their ancestral house, would hover the mild soapy fragrance of his crisp shirts..and his disintegrating voice. As if, it sent across ripples in the air before finally finding her. Deep inside the house. Bottling pickles. Year after year. Standing in the sun. Growing batches of flowers in their garden. Not a single winter went blossom-less, in those many decades. Pampering pets, street dogs, homely cats and talking parrots.
Albums of black and white pictures. Of pubescent daughters posing by flowers, and sons with toy guns. And weddings, and numerous birthdays. Anniversaries, gone by. And annual days at schools. Year after year. Every year. Keeping moments. Until now. Until now.
Until that very moment, when she would stare at their kitchen wall. And try to remember, hard, almost like an amnesiac.
Matrimony, they say..
3 comments:
he/she who envisages a predicament has been gifted to deal with it as well - a madman once told me
like the title, the whole post and even rest of the posts have wild beauty thats not common
Loved the attention given to the details here...
So vivid a description of ancestral houses - esp. the boxes of glass bangles. Something so commonplace yet so easily overlooked !
You seem to have captured the essence of matrimony when you said "Understand, respond. Compassionately sympathize. Dispassionately comment."
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