Sparkling illuminated streets. One can listen to the feeble laughing of the women babbling about the busy day. With the clinking of the red bangles, the rustling of the silk as they set the plates of their red sarees, every woman wants to look no less than their “so-called” friends. “Ohfoo, this pollution! Iss saal bhi Chaand der mein dikhega!”, exclaimed one of them with bitterness. After all, they had been waiting for this very moment since dawn.
She is watching this “once beautiful now full of grief moment” with tears in her eyes. That faded grey cotton suit weighs her down. Everything’s the same. November is here. The sun is warm, winter flaps his fleecy wings. Her wrinkled but
shiny hands reach out to take out the woolen cap woven by her especially for him, “Oh he’ll catch a cold”. She stops midway. The winter blues moist her eyes. “How will I make it without him? He broke his promise”. She reminisces the day she got married. Adorned with ornaments, the red saree added to the elegance. That was probably the best day of her life. “I was 18 then”, she mumbles. Caressing his cap which still holds his fragrance, she keeps it back.
Ignoring the feeble laugh of women, closing the window she returns to the kitchen to cook his favorite kheer (with almonds).
Scrambling through life, she awaits to meet him again.
