He picked at a scab. I sat next to him with my head in my hands and stared. “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man….have you read it?” he asked. “No”, I said, now staring at my brittle toe nails.
“I might open a shop here”, he said looking at the sky.
“What kind?” I asked looking at a cloud.
“Small” he replied.
I smiled and we walked towards the sea.

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It was a lazy afternoon. Soft, yellow and wintry. The dog nibbled at something. I stretched and yawned and smiled all the while. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared out of the window. The fan whirred steadily, at its lowest speed. I touched his back, half asleep, looking at him with rainbow eyelashes.

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It had rained last night. It was still raining in the morning. Freak showers from nowhere particular. Had the MET in a tizzy. He had wanted to cook. I had wanted to make love.

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The phone rang incessantly. But it was an empty house. The chair, the table, the bed, the floor, the ceiling…they heard. And they felt scared. The dog had died a few days ago.

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I had a headache. Nothing seemed right when I had a headache. I slept fitfully and wept unconsciously. The chowkidaar was on his final round. He blew the whistle and beat the ground with his stick. He had one more bidi and slept in peace, awakened by the occasional mosquito.

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He had said too much of what he had felt. He was embarrassed now. He smoked in the verandah and watched football on TV. He wouldn’t look at me. He wouldn’t talk to me. I chewed on the things he had just told me.

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I painted an ugly picture. I loved it. He cocked his head sideways and smiled at it. He had just gotten a pair of glasses. He looked older and more patient.

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I was at a wedding. I just went because I wanted to wear a sari. He did not come, and a mashima said, it was my turn next.

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He was packing his bag. I was sitting cross-legged on the bed, observing everything. Six pairs of underwear, socks, shirts, T-shirts, two pairs of jeans, two pairs of khakis, a cargo, three trousers, a denim jacket, an overcoat, wet-pack.

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“I am finding this very difficult. I am sick. Homesick. Lovesick.” I put the letter into the empty Cadbury Nutties box.

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It was hot and sweaty. Loads of work to be done. Loads of work. I had a crick in my neck. I smelt the Vicks container once again and felt better. I picked up a bunch of books and placed them in the huge cardboard box. I sealed it with duct tape and then wrote on it with a marker: Books that I actually read.

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I left 5 minutes ago. He called. He was very happy. She was fine. I was fine.

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I was taking piano lessons. I was re-learning the subjects I was bad at. I liked the new place. It was not too big, not too small. I had a new dog. I finally read ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’. I had to fish it out of the box marked – ‘Books I’ll never read, but should’.

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