Jaane kyun log pyaar karte hein?
Jaane kyun woh kissi pe marte hein?
Jaane kyun?
The radio on the black marble kitchen slab throws at me a series of question and waits for my reply as it is disturbed by static. I fiddle with the knobs on the side, adjusting the frequency, wanting to progress with the interrogation but the static only rings louder in my ears. I slap the noisy plastic, hoping whatever it is that has budged will hear it's calling and make it's way to wherever it is meant to be. For it too, is destined for greater things than to sit in an odd corner of a box and rust. But I guess, today is just not it's day.
I rub of the orangey-yellowish stains of last nights butter chicken, the clitter clatter of my fidgeting around the sink drowns out the static and the music that decides to make guest appearances in between. I smile as I put the last of the dishes to dry on the sill and make my way towards the living room, stopping only to stare and admire my beauty at the mirror that hangs on the parting wall.
I roll my eyes in the mirror and smile. He used to love it when I rolled my eyes at him. It would light him up instantly, as if he were a bulb and I was the switch. He would laugh and clap his hands in approval, all the while struggling to sit up straight, in the way young babes do. But that was years ago. 40 years at the least.
He's all grown up now, with a French beard and a French wife and their little French kisses. I wonder if he ever remembers how I rolled my eyes, or if he ever remembers me?
I can't help but stay at the mirror a little longer, and cover my eyes, cover them with my hands only to strip them the next minute, with a countenance of total surprise and mouth Peekaboo! My memory brings to me fresh wafts of his laughter, and I let out a little laugh myself. It doesn't really hurt to be silly does it? Besides, his laughter was always infectious. It would ignite the whole room into fits.
But he's caught up in his web now. He doesn't have time to laugh for me any more. Oh, well. I don't have much time for him either. I'm a busy woman. Last night I cooked his favourite sort of chicken and sat beside him and he laughed and again the whole room was in fits! And today I'm going to make mutton biryani and raita, and sit next to him again. There is so much I have to do! He's going to be here any moment.
And with that I make a Ding-Dong sound in my head and rush to open the door. Oh, Mama! He says, the kitchen smells wonderful! Oh lala! I smile inwardly at his frenchness as I sit him down as I sit next to the void beside, and ask about the wife.
Jaane kyun woh kissi pe marte hein?
Jaane kyun?
The radio on the black marble kitchen slab throws at me a series of question and waits for my reply as it is disturbed by static. I fiddle with the knobs on the side, adjusting the frequency, wanting to progress with the interrogation but the static only rings louder in my ears. I slap the noisy plastic, hoping whatever it is that has budged will hear it's calling and make it's way to wherever it is meant to be. For it too, is destined for greater things than to sit in an odd corner of a box and rust. But I guess, today is just not it's day.
I rub of the orangey-yellowish stains of last nights butter chicken, the clitter clatter of my fidgeting around the sink drowns out the static and the music that decides to make guest appearances in between. I smile as I put the last of the dishes to dry on the sill and make my way towards the living room, stopping only to stare and admire my beauty at the mirror that hangs on the parting wall.
I roll my eyes in the mirror and smile. He used to love it when I rolled my eyes at him. It would light him up instantly, as if he were a bulb and I was the switch. He would laugh and clap his hands in approval, all the while struggling to sit up straight, in the way young babes do. But that was years ago. 40 years at the least.
He's all grown up now, with a French beard and a French wife and their little French kisses. I wonder if he ever remembers how I rolled my eyes, or if he ever remembers me?
I can't help but stay at the mirror a little longer, and cover my eyes, cover them with my hands only to strip them the next minute, with a countenance of total surprise and mouth Peekaboo! My memory brings to me fresh wafts of his laughter, and I let out a little laugh myself. It doesn't really hurt to be silly does it? Besides, his laughter was always infectious. It would ignite the whole room into fits.
But he's caught up in his web now. He doesn't have time to laugh for me any more. Oh, well. I don't have much time for him either. I'm a busy woman. Last night I cooked his favourite sort of chicken and sat beside him and he laughed and again the whole room was in fits! And today I'm going to make mutton biryani and raita, and sit next to him again. There is so much I have to do! He's going to be here any moment.
And with that I make a Ding-Dong sound in my head and rush to open the door. Oh, Mama! He says, the kitchen smells wonderful! Oh lala! I smile inwardly at his frenchness as I sit him down as I sit next to the void beside, and ask about the wife.
