Sunday, November 21, 2010

Over the hill

Somedays are meant to be indolent. A late morning coffee in one hand ( especially choosing a mild silver mug to go with the mood) to quitely slip into a well-cushioned recliner  and let the mind go void for the rest of the day.  To listlessly witness in that cozy dwelling, the sights that might have been missed out on an otherwise hustling life.

And sometimes the daily affairs surprisingly kindle the moment's attention. Time doesn't stop. Talking doesn't stop. A serious conversation between the two, with a pitch of emotional intensity. And the voice slowly raises, but still remains feeble. The conversation is diluted with the sound of water splashing over the vessels in the kitchen sink. But why, it's almost as real as listening to peasants on a meadow.

And she goes on, tale after tale, a tone of dislike, a tint of delight, like a song along the words. The talking stops when the washing stops, but she's still intent, now running the voices in her mind, while drying the vessels.

The mind glides home now. The grandaughter needs a bath. Dinner has to be cooked. There might be visitors in the evening. They will need special sweets and savouries.

The loud voices diminish. The work is done and it's time to leave. But tomorrow is another day, with a mind full of new events to talk over the kitchen sink. The greys of her hair had glints of silver. She comes back each day, walking all the way, and from here back home. With puffed eyes, she stiffly walks to the door. She hardly sleeps at night. The floor is hard. The winter is harsh. But she's happy. She hugs onto the new blanket. She'll give it to her daughter.

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