Single woman in the city.

She lives alone. She cooks alone. She eats alone. She travels alone. Her life follows a simple pattern, nothing complex, nothing different. She feels lonely sometimes. She often thinks of what she left behind her – the home she stayed in, the people she cared for, the family and pets she was surrounded with, the love and laughter she shared in abundance.
She does not want to complain. But life is strange at times and leaves her with no other choice. Especially when she has to keep an account of the numerous phone and travel bills, fend for herself, argue with loud and cranky housemaids for cleaning up the house. She feels alone when everything and everyone in the city seem strange and unwelcoming. Feels unloved when people seem to lose their essence of humanity and appear similar to unemotional androids. Feels uncared for when she falls ill (God forbid!) and has to brew her own soup for a sore throat, or hunt for a strip of Disprin when struck with a horrible headache. Feels cold when she returns ‘home’ to an empty flat with no mother to open the door with a reassuring smile. No father to envelop her in a comfortable bear hug, no brother to run around and prattle childishly about his day’s activities and the craftwork he made at school. No dogs bounding around her legs and stretching themselves to enable her to scratch their necks and head and fondle their soft fur coat. No cats wrapping themselves around her legs and purring away contentedly, the engines in their stomach rumbling with a vibrating comfort. No hot cup of chai waiting for her beside the computer table on those cold winter nights. No bed made out with a soft comforter and soft pillows.
Sweeping, brooming, getting the bathroom cleaned, laundry, ironing clothes, grocery shopping – she is adept at those everyday household chores that most people her age can not even comprehend. She does not find life any more difficult than a person without limbs. It’s just the warmth and love missing from the everyday routine.