Over your grave, she had said!
An age had passed since the old familiar feeling of the staple-in-the-heart hit me where it hurt. I relived the day this morning. I saw her smile; random pictures, random people.
We had been holding hands; she was busy naming the kids (all eleven of them) while I tried redecorating the house with little artifacts that we would collect from our world trips. We were just about getting to the seating area, and fighting over the ornate baithak that I loved, but which she hated. She wrenched her hand away from mine; the coffee felt warm running down my bare thighs. The birds were unusually loud. The newspaper seemed to be in greyscale today.
Yes, the Jhoola was an unnecessary expense, so too was the farmhouse. We could afford it though; She was after all, the head honcho of a successful practice for a large MNC. She was unwilling to let me work--I was supposed to write! Fame and glory would be at our doorsteps, waiting to be let in, and be asked to sit on the large Italian couch that she preferred over the Sankheda Baithak that my native senses reveled in.
We had barely spent five minutes in each others arms when the memory arrived. I yelled her name out, loud enough for everyone on the floor to hear. The breaths were coming in short bursts. I had forgotten this was not meant to be.
I woke up with a start.
It still takes me a few moments each morning to realize the woman I wake up next to--the person who I owe my life to, the lady who's changed the gloom to glorious dawn, my closest friend and confidante--is not "her".
She was sound asleep. Her child-like beatific smile curved into a slight smirk.
