'We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine', the gramophone blared when I turned the door knob and entered the house.
We both had a knack for collecting vintage items. A pocketwatch, a typewriter, a gramophone, a vintage telephone, you name it. We had it all. Even our furniture had a retro feel to it, as if the varnish radiated a smell from the olden era. I reached home past dinner-time. The sink had a used plate in it which told me he had already eaten. I entered the bedroom and saw that he was rearranging his vinyl records again. I hugged him from behind and he nuzzled his beard against my cheek, whilst deciding where to keep his 'Eagles' vinyl.
I undressed, took a shower, heated my dinner in the microwave, and sat in front of the TV with my plate. The movie dragged on till midnight. It was about a cop-turned-mass murderer-turned-philanthropist. I switched off the TV without bothering about the suspense, and wondered how Bollywood consistently managed to come up with stuff like this. I checked if the front door was locked, and the gas was turned off, and then retired to bed. He was already asleep. I got inside the blanket and put my arm around him. It felt so mechanical that I withdrew my arm and just moved closer until my nose touched his. He was lightly snoring, and his eyes twitched as if he was having a bad dream. He would be gone before I woke up at the morrow, and I would proceed with my routine uninhibited. We still loved each other, cared for each other, and even made compromises. Then why did it never feel like it was enough?
When you wipe a used slate with a wet cloth, it turns matte black, spick and span. Then when the moisture evaporates and the slate dries up, you see the persistent chalk marks still sticking out like an alligator's nose in a lake, and the matte black turns into a grainy grey. No matter how many times you wipe it, you can never get rid of it. These chalk marks don't hinder with the purpose of the slate, but they do bother you, and you keep wishing they weren't there. Our relationship was like that. We had all the prerequisites to make it work, but that's just what we were doing. We were only making it work. We couldn't get rid of the unwanted dregs that kept surfacing. We both could see it, and on weekends we would go on dates, try to get rid of them, wipe the slate clean, get the spark back. But these dregs would always return, and we just learnt to live with it. Like a stubborn cowlick, it would stand out.
We remained under the pretense that this is what the norm is, that it's okay to feel like this, that it's okay to not be happy about seeing each other at the end of the day, that it's okay to hug but never feel the warmth, that it's okay that our smiles never reach our eyes. We nurtured this denial until our partnership disintegrated into just a marriage. Today, we celebrate birthdays and anniversaries together, we open a bottle of champagne on reaching milestones, and hold hands while crossing a street. But every night before going to sleep, we question whether we do it because we want to? Or is it because we are supposed to?
We both had a knack for collecting vintage items. A pocketwatch, a typewriter, a gramophone, a vintage telephone, you name it. We had it all. Even our furniture had a retro feel to it, as if the varnish radiated a smell from the olden era. I reached home past dinner-time. The sink had a used plate in it which told me he had already eaten. I entered the bedroom and saw that he was rearranging his vinyl records again. I hugged him from behind and he nuzzled his beard against my cheek, whilst deciding where to keep his 'Eagles' vinyl.
I undressed, took a shower, heated my dinner in the microwave, and sat in front of the TV with my plate. The movie dragged on till midnight. It was about a cop-turned-mass murderer-turned-philanthropist. I switched off the TV without bothering about the suspense, and wondered how Bollywood consistently managed to come up with stuff like this. I checked if the front door was locked, and the gas was turned off, and then retired to bed. He was already asleep. I got inside the blanket and put my arm around him. It felt so mechanical that I withdrew my arm and just moved closer until my nose touched his. He was lightly snoring, and his eyes twitched as if he was having a bad dream. He would be gone before I woke up at the morrow, and I would proceed with my routine uninhibited. We still loved each other, cared for each other, and even made compromises. Then why did it never feel like it was enough?
When you wipe a used slate with a wet cloth, it turns matte black, spick and span. Then when the moisture evaporates and the slate dries up, you see the persistent chalk marks still sticking out like an alligator's nose in a lake, and the matte black turns into a grainy grey. No matter how many times you wipe it, you can never get rid of it. These chalk marks don't hinder with the purpose of the slate, but they do bother you, and you keep wishing they weren't there. Our relationship was like that. We had all the prerequisites to make it work, but that's just what we were doing. We were only making it work. We couldn't get rid of the unwanted dregs that kept surfacing. We both could see it, and on weekends we would go on dates, try to get rid of them, wipe the slate clean, get the spark back. But these dregs would always return, and we just learnt to live with it. Like a stubborn cowlick, it would stand out.
We remained under the pretense that this is what the norm is, that it's okay to feel like this, that it's okay to not be happy about seeing each other at the end of the day, that it's okay to hug but never feel the warmth, that it's okay that our smiles never reach our eyes. We nurtured this denial until our partnership disintegrated into just a marriage. Today, we celebrate birthdays and anniversaries together, we open a bottle of champagne on reaching milestones, and hold hands while crossing a street. But every night before going to sleep, we question whether we do it because we want to? Or is it because we are supposed to?
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