Life; as usual.

He had an off that day. It was bit unlikely for one of them to get a day off when the other did not. There was never a debate over their company’s holiday policies. Both seemed to be doing as well. Today was that odd day though, when only he was at home.


There was not much that he learned to cook, and this seemed like a concern today, because he was planning to. Between them though, he made up, because what he lacked in cooking, he made up in cleaning, a trait he borrowed from his Dad, cleaning was something that he could put his mind to, and that made it not as mundane.


Today he had decided to do both however. Waking up late, he figured she had left already. Like a dream that you are reminded of once up, he recollected a faint peck on his forehead that she left him with before leaving for work, confirmed later with the maroon lipstick mark he saw on him, in the bathroom mirror. He made himself some black coffee and followed his daily routine of reading the newspaper sitting on the floor. Reading the papers sitting on the floor, over a cup of tea or coffee was in his mind the best compliment one could give to a quiet morning, so much so that the content in the paper seemed to play an irrelevant role. In today’s journalism and reporting, he felt anyhow, that irrelevant was a fairly apt word.


A late heavy breakfast of omelette, bread cheese and jam, juice and bowl of cornflakes made up for lunch as well. The spread on the table, and the ease of making it made breakfast a meal he always looked forward to. The heavier he made it, the better he slept in the afternoon. And there were few things as fulfilling as the thought of a weekday afternoon nap. He finished eating and made himself another cup of coffee before setting out to clean the house.


Once done with the required cleaning, he realized that he had not called to check how her day was going. There was no set understanding they had on this. Theirs was not a couple that had some clear rule of not calling or calling. They just had phases, of either checking up, or not. And these phases balanced themselves out. If they didn't, there would be an argument, which would set the matter in perspective. In that sense, he always found an argument a welcome effect, in hindsight. He tried explaining that to her later, but she found it principally incorrect to approve of an argument to ever have a positive connotation. And because he could understand what she meant, he did not push the matter much. It was just a matter of opinion after all.


Waking up after his much fancied afternoon nap, he ran in his mind the list of vegetables he needed for making a salad, which would go along with small portions of rice and the only dish he had managed to learn, chicken curry. He spent some time listening to Mekaal Hasan Band with some tea he made for himself. Music for him was more than a matter of the music itself. It was a set up. A cup of tea, with the sun nearing its descend, called for certain sounds. And nothing seemed more apt than the voice of Javed Bashir, one that he had found fitting into umpteen situations since the first time he heard them.


While he was picking up the vegetables at the vendor, he noticed a frail, but clean looking man next to him asking for the price of potatoes. Once the vendor told him how much it cost, he stood in a corner with an expression that resembled control in a part and contemplation in another. He was keeping his face in control, while trying to cover up what he contemplated. The vendor seemed a bit annoyed because the frail clean man was disturbing him while he made a big sale to a guy who pretty much bought everything on impulse, and that was Him. He, however, could not help but notice what the frail clean man was up to. A little while later the frail clean man walked up to ask how much would paav kilo ( paav, hindi for a quarter kilogram) of potato would cost. The vendor seemed annoyed at the silliness of the Ask. For the vendor, it was a small portion of what cost nothing much. For the frail clean man though, it meant dinner. He however noticed the gathered control and self respect on the frail clean man's face. He could have given the potatoes he bought to the frail clean man and felt a better human than being a mere observer, but that expression on the frail clean man's face held him from doing that. The man would not even look at him, though those two were the only ones shopping, and that in itself was the most dignified display of self-reliance in adversity. The frail clean man just waited patiently for the vendor to get done with him. Once he was done buying his set of vegetables, he left leaving the man behind. His bag seemed much heavier than it really was…


This, he decided, was what he would share with her today when she came back from work.


As planned, he cut the vegetables and cooked rice and chicken. She preferred her salad in a minimalistic dressing that he knew needed to be worked on only once she came in. After cleaning up the dishes, he took a shower and waited watching TV over mug of beer.

She walked in later than usual. The expression on her face said it all, she had a bad day. He knew there won’t be much of a dinner today.

He asked her, “How was your day?”

She replied, “Can you make me some noodles?”

Noodles were her comfort food. It was something that even he seemed to agree upon. He thought women had an incredible knack to physically transform an emotional state. Food for emotions, clothes for moods, and many such. It was something he wanted to observe, and even learn a little about. After she took a shower, she slipped into one of his Boxers and Ts. The physical expression was clear; she did have a bad day at work. Though on most occasions, she wore his clothes only when she missed him, and she told him about it later. He knew there was nothing much he could do now. She had to be left alone through her routine. Once that time was up, he would try walking into her zone.

“Would you want to have the noodles in the bedroom floor itself? ”, he asked.

She nodded, with a faint attempt at smiling.


They sat beside the floor lamp next to the book-shelf with their bowl each. The chicken would have to go into tomorrow's lunch he thought, and the salad could last a day or two. The rice could not be saved. He thought about the frail clean man. Then he looked at her pretty face, and nothing seemed to matter beyond that for the time being.


“I don't want to work there, “she said, like she would on a day like that. He heard her through. She slipped into bed after that. He spent a little while cleaning the dishes. He then took a shower, changed and joined her in bed. They made gentle love, and slept like nothing really mattered beyond that moment..

The Prop

The Theater of life carries the chance to take you from being a Hero, to being a part of the Supporting cast. You become the Prop to someone's Destiny, instead of becoming their Destiny.