• shashagilbert_ 57w

    There is a story, behind the way she pours my coffee at 7 in the morning. There is a story behind the way she smiles at me, when I leave the house for work. There is a story behind the way she welcomes me, even when I am late, which is almost everyday. There is a story behind those broken vases. There is a story behind her silence. There is a story behind our story.

    Today, the gale is flowing in the direction of my transgressed home. Blowing away the photographs and reminiscent sentiments. I can feel my feet going numb just like my heart, so I choose to sit somewhere. On a bench, few miles away. I can see the silhouette of a lady; reading something perhaps. So I sit beside her. I won't look at her, she seems to be succumbed in whatever she is doing. For some reason, she appears aloof. So I resume my thoughts.

    What went wrong? She chides me, like she uses her soul as a canvas to fill laundry basket upto the brim. She sacrificed a lot, she still does, I know. But, had I not? She is my other half, I am supposed to understand her, but what about me? My mind, is reverberating with the same questions, so I sit straight and look around. I notice no one is sitting beside me anymore, well atleast a living being isn't. I pick up the beige handbag she probably left in haste. What should I do with it? May be there is an ID inside. So I reluctantly explore. It's a bland bag, nothing special or atypical. Except this piece of paper. Why doesn't she carry an ID? I unfold the paper for hints. I read-

    Dear John,

    I dreamt of a happy life today, again. The city is littered with broken dreams and promises today, you asked what went wrong. Well I will tell you what did, ransack my bag once more will you? I hope you are going with the flow. Now in that small handbag you'd find-

    ✓ A half eaten chocolate, forthwith you must be wondering what significance does that hold, well the other half belongs to you. I am supposed to share everything with you without whining, you see.

    ✓ House keys, you know, to capture all the warmth from the imprints of your memories when you leave the house and when you return.

    ✓ Lipstick, I am supposed to please your eyes because you are a man and I am a porcelain doll and my lips shouldn't be chapped.

    ✓ Tissue papers, your tears only matter. Mine? Well mine are meant to be soaked into the sand of a broken hourglass.

    Did you find any ID proof? Well I suppose you didn't. You know why? Because I am a wife and you are my ID. I don't have an individual existence. I am leaving the world to cleanse the mark you gave me.

    Yours Anna.

    Now, I am not John and I don't know who Anna is, maybe it's the name of the lady. But I do know something; I have to see my wife. Dropping the handbag on the bench. I start marching, but there is something inside my head that is telling me to look back. So I turn my head to look for the handbag. It is gone. Like it was never even there. Now that I strain my mind a bit, I don't remember the lady's face. Not even a glimpse of it. 'who was she?' I sprint, as fast as I could. The buildings, the cars and the stench of hopelessness fill my nostrils.

    'I see you everyday how come I never noticed your pale skin, sunken eyeballs and the dark bags under your eyes? I hug you tightly and enchanted "I love yous and I understand." I am afraid you'll vanish in thin air.'

    There is a story behind her veined hands and the way she adds her name with my name.

    I can see the world in her beige handbag.


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