In TV serials, there are these shrewd conspiring aunties. Where are they in our lives? Our life. Plural no more. Singular, held together by the glue of love. Our life. Not lives. Marked correction. Where are these shrewd conspiring TV serial aunties? So is missing the rain, romance, honeymooned beaches. Skimpy clothes bought and hidden for far off holidays. Gifts and special days. Staring at the moon and talking. When will I be reading out all these poems I wrote for you, all these years. When will you pause from the race you are running and say, you love me too. When are we gonna rest, baby. I am tired, working days, thinking work at nights, working my ass off for the money that is never spent to purchase lasting joy. I am exhausted, being stuck so much away from you, that if I scream, you would never ever get me. Where is the life I wanted so much. The satin bed sheet, on which I would count creases in the morning. Where is the half burnt dinner I would manage, to be nibbled with rapt attention, in front of the TV, watching serials, and wondering why is whatever missing, missing indeed. Our life, is exhausting itself so fast, in the hands of time and fate, I couldn't feel more crippled sometimes. Of missing out on so much. Of missing out on so much, that it is as if, everything is being missed out, forsaken. And what for? Why? I know there always is somebody who is more underprivileged than us, but why do the good things seem to happen to someone outside of the aforesaid underprivileged and us. Just why.