I so much longed for beautiful little feet with no lines of hardships and losses etched on it, tattooed just above my navel. Days and nights slipped away as I ran my fingers over it and imagined, how it would be if a small little one took shape just behind those feet? Do those feet grow bigger as my baby grows bigger inside? And, the happiness transferred to Karen at the sight of those little feet in moments of intimacy- the happiness that I could share a bit of my world with my unborn baby? Some people unpredictably become a part of the inside world to twist and turn and start it all over again to make a different story and Karen was one such person in my life.
I see, Karen immersed in a book and I absorb every details of the moment, his posture, the chair, the book cover, the coffee beside him- a hobby I developed long back, to make an archive of pictures from every day of my life. I take it out from there and look at it frequently, sometimes to scrutinize the flamboyance hidden in his posture, sometimes to check if his fingers look different now and mostly to ensure myself that they are all safe in my secret magicbox! When he glances up at me, frantically I pick my phone, run my fingers over it and as I see his eyes are still at me, I ask him, "Can we have a baby?" Without much thought, he says, "No." How abrupt! Has he thought over it earlier or am I living in a world of illusion, negating the reality that others think is true? I put back the phone and go back to my kitchen, the only place where I think I needn't be mindful of conquering Karen's space or tainting his aesthetic taste. He spends very little time here lately, especially as it has become cluttered leaving no space for us to sit together and have our tea chattering and savouring the silence around, like we used to. Now the only space left in the kitchen is made lively with a bunch of spring onions with flowers put in a carefully chosen tall glass holder and a purple and grey tinged white pigeon, who visits me without any fail in the morning and evening spending some time at the window sill.
I see, Karen immersed in a book and I absorb every details of the moment, his posture, the chair, the book cover, the coffee beside him- a hobby I developed long back, to make an archive of pictures from every day of my life. I take it out from there and look at it frequently, sometimes to scrutinize the flamboyance hidden in his posture, sometimes to check if his fingers look different now and mostly to ensure myself that they are all safe in my secret magicbox! When he glances up at me, frantically I pick my phone, run my fingers over it and as I see his eyes are still at me, I ask him, "Can we have a baby?" Without much thought, he says, "No." How abrupt! Has he thought over it earlier or am I living in a world of illusion, negating the reality that others think is true? I put back the phone and go back to my kitchen, the only place where I think I needn't be mindful of conquering Karen's space or tainting his aesthetic taste. He spends very little time here lately, especially as it has become cluttered leaving no space for us to sit together and have our tea chattering and savouring the silence around, like we used to. Now the only space left in the kitchen is made lively with a bunch of spring onions with flowers put in a carefully chosen tall glass holder and a purple and grey tinged white pigeon, who visits me without any fail in the morning and evening spending some time at the window sill.
