The month that was....
I came back from work today. It was back to the usual routine -- the house was locked. I unlocked the door and let myself into the dark living room, switched on the light. Immediately, I noticed the difference. The house looked neater than usual, things were exactly where I had left them, nothing had moved. Everything was right how I preferred it. The bathroom floor was dry, the foot towel was in the right place, the blue doormat by the loo was in the same position it had been since I had last wiped my feet on it in the morning. The kitchen counter was clean, dishes were done and resting in the pale brown basket, there were no broken eggs on the counter. But it seemed that something was amiss, something was wrong and I didn't want it that way.
The brown, boot-like Woodland shoes by the door were missing. So was the pair of black socks, worn for close to two months now and smelling as bad as a rafflesia would. The clothes hook in the living room beckoned to me, empty. After a long time, I could hang my jeans and sweatshirt there without the fear of them falling to the floor later (there were no other clothes there). The green laundry basket was empty, apart from a few of my dirty t-shirts. The black jacket was missing. So was the huge black suitcase that had been kept in the balcony. The things had been packed into it and taken away thousands of miles away. In the hall, the slippers were in the right place.
It was only in my room that I was reminded of what I was missing, the person I had dropped off early morning at Terminal 1 of the IGI Airport. Two days earlier, he unfurled a surprise for me after I got back home from work. Nothing ostentatious, nothing gaudy or big. Just a simple message on the floor -- 'I love you' written with torn strips of newspaper. The creation is still there -- it reminded me of who I was thinking of. The bed was unmade, the sheets crumpled and wrinkled. The pink and orange comforter lay balled up in the middle. The pillows and cushions were everywhere. His laptop was gone, so was the charger. The only thing left was the camera, lying in the middle of the bed, with the charging cable still trailing from it like an ugly appendage. The brown bean bag chair was empty. The orange ceramic vase still contained the rose he had brought for me almost three weeks ago, now dried and shrivelled in its container, the head of the flower drooping off and facing the floor, as if ashamed of its pitiful state now.
Well, the house would be clean now. I could breathe a sigh of relief. No more dishes to be done at odd hours. No more stray hair strands on the floor that needed to be swept off. No yelling at someone to wear slippers, hang the wet towels on the line and not leave them on the bed or on the chair. Or screaming at someone not to walk around the house with wet feet and to deposit all dirty clothes in the laundry bag. No arranging the bedsheet time and again, grumbling at him for his utter lack of civility when in the house. (He tends to throw objects here, there and everywhere, though its more out of carelessness than vile intentions).
I prepared a light dinner, remembered the past month. The television stayed off, there would be no more switching channels and surfing for movies. No marathon sessions of FRIENDS and a random romantic flick. Or an old silent comedy. There would be no more long walks, close to six-eight kilometres at a stretch, holding hands, giggling like kids and talking all the way. There would be no more childish games -- darts, footballers, name/place/animal/thing, word challenge, etc. There would be no one to help with the Quick crossword everyday -- I would have to do it on my own again. There would be no more yelling and screaming and obsessive-compulsive Monica Geller-types behaviour. I could do what I liked, the house was mine again.
But something, somewhere was missing. Though I hate to admit it, I want the chaos and mess back, if only to drive out my loneliness again, to bring back the love, those warm hands that would drive my coldness away, those curls and dimples that made me pull his cheek each time I saw that twinkle in his eyes.
Song of The Day: When You're Gone (Avril Lavigne)
The brown, boot-like Woodland shoes by the door were missing. So was the pair of black socks, worn for close to two months now and smelling as bad as a rafflesia would. The clothes hook in the living room beckoned to me, empty. After a long time, I could hang my jeans and sweatshirt there without the fear of them falling to the floor later (there were no other clothes there). The green laundry basket was empty, apart from a few of my dirty t-shirts. The black jacket was missing. So was the huge black suitcase that had been kept in the balcony. The things had been packed into it and taken away thousands of miles away. In the hall, the slippers were in the right place.
It was only in my room that I was reminded of what I was missing, the person I had dropped off early morning at Terminal 1 of the IGI Airport. Two days earlier, he unfurled a surprise for me after I got back home from work. Nothing ostentatious, nothing gaudy or big. Just a simple message on the floor -- 'I love you' written with torn strips of newspaper. The creation is still there -- it reminded me of who I was thinking of. The bed was unmade, the sheets crumpled and wrinkled. The pink and orange comforter lay balled up in the middle. The pillows and cushions were everywhere. His laptop was gone, so was the charger. The only thing left was the camera, lying in the middle of the bed, with the charging cable still trailing from it like an ugly appendage. The brown bean bag chair was empty. The orange ceramic vase still contained the rose he had brought for me almost three weeks ago, now dried and shrivelled in its container, the head of the flower drooping off and facing the floor, as if ashamed of its pitiful state now.
Well, the house would be clean now. I could breathe a sigh of relief. No more dishes to be done at odd hours. No more stray hair strands on the floor that needed to be swept off. No yelling at someone to wear slippers, hang the wet towels on the line and not leave them on the bed or on the chair. Or screaming at someone not to walk around the house with wet feet and to deposit all dirty clothes in the laundry bag. No arranging the bedsheet time and again, grumbling at him for his utter lack of civility when in the house. (He tends to throw objects here, there and everywhere, though its more out of carelessness than vile intentions).
I prepared a light dinner, remembered the past month. The television stayed off, there would be no more switching channels and surfing for movies. No marathon sessions of FRIENDS and a random romantic flick. Or an old silent comedy. There would be no more long walks, close to six-eight kilometres at a stretch, holding hands, giggling like kids and talking all the way. There would be no more childish games -- darts, footballers, name/place/animal/thing, word challenge, etc. There would be no one to help with the Quick crossword everyday -- I would have to do it on my own again. There would be no more yelling and screaming and obsessive-compulsive Monica Geller-types behaviour. I could do what I liked, the house was mine again.
But something, somewhere was missing. Though I hate to admit it, I want the chaos and mess back, if only to drive out my loneliness again, to bring back the love, those warm hands that would drive my coldness away, those curls and dimples that made me pull his cheek each time I saw that twinkle in his eyes.
Song of The Day: When You're Gone (Avril Lavigne)
I thought Dravid retiring today would make me cry. Bleddy yell... this did!
ReplyDeleteAnd i thought i could write... Bleddy lady, this is like poignant, touching and moving at a pace not determined by the reader, but by the emotions you carry...
Respect! And yeah keep writing!